


Witch Night, or How The Word 'Snitch' Entered Muggle German

by tetley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-06
Updated: 2011-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tetley/pseuds/tetley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a women's hotel somewhere in Berlin, two Muggles stumble across traces of a long-lost aunt. What is the story behind Wilhelmina Plank's disappearance? And who is the mysterious kvidditch girl?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Warnings:** OCs galore and some language (you guess which one).  
 **Prompt:** 23) _You never conquer a mountain. You stand on the summit a few moments; then the wind blows your footprints away_. --Arlene Blum (born 1945), biophysical chemist, mountaineer, author, and co-founder of the Green Science Policy Institute.  
 **Word Count:** ca. 26,000  
 **Author's Notes:** There are two things I've long wanted to write: lesbian history, and a backstory for Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank. And somehow this quote sparked all sorts of thoughts on both. I hope it shines through somewhere, despite the utter lack of mountains in this flatland fic.  
As always, [](http://kellychambliss.livejournal.com/profile)[**kellychambliss**](http://kellychambliss.livejournal.com/) and [](http://therealsnape.livejournal.com/profile)[**therealsnape**](http://therealsnape.livejournal.com/) provided invaluable input and encouragement. Thank you so much, both of you, and thank you, [](http://gehayi.livejournal.com/profile)[**gehayi**](http://gehayi.livejournal.com/) for running this wonderful fest!  
I borrowed a place from Erich Kästner and everything else you recognise from J.K. Rowling. All OCs traipsing around in this story are fictional except Lotte the walk-on, who really deserves a novel of her own.

  
  
**  
Witch Night Or How The Word _Snitch_ Entered Muggle German   
**

**  
Stoatshead Hill, 30 April 1999, 6:30 a.m.**

The woman yawned as she opened the back door of her cottage and stuck her nose out into the crisp, cold morning. Squinting at the horizon, she saw with satisfaction that a thin, peach-coloured lining had begun to creep up above the fields behind Ottery St. Catchpole. Timid rays of whitish light shone into her garden, making the clouds of mist that rose from the dewy grass look like so many tiny thoughts in a Pensieve.

About time the days got longer now.

It had rained that night, and the young day smelled fresh and earthy. The woman took a deep breath, her tired face cracking into a smile as the moist air filled her lungs, and pulled on a pair of wellingtons.

The grass badly needed cutting and de-thatching. Perhaps she could summon the energy to do it today. Old school, Muggle style. Granted, her back, once her great pride, wasn't what it used to be, but an hour with the scythe wouldn't kill her, not if she warmed up decently beforehand. Physical work was good. Repetitive manual labour, a stroke for every thought, a bead of sweat for every memory.

Besides, the animals would love the freshly-cut grass.

She crossed the puddle-dotted meadow and opened the door of the unicorn stable. The mare was eating poorly now, but who was she to blame her? It wasn't as if _she_ had taken in anything that deserved to be called food these past days, either.

She took a bucket of water and placed it under the faucet of the ancient pump. Took a good dozen swings of the creaking handle until clean water came. She'd have to do something about the pressure, and a few drops of oil wouldn't hurt.

The bucket in one hand and a bundle of hay in the other, she went over to the mare and her foal. She mixed some alfalfa and a generous scoop of sugar beet shreds into the hay, hoping that that would make breakfast appealing enough. She forked the whole load into the manger and quietly closed the stable door behind herself.

Her first chore done, she sat down on the bench behind the cottage and took a pipe out of her pocket. She filled it slowly, pensively, taking her time lighting it. And when she took the first puff, she leaned back, the thick boiled wool cloak cushioning her spine against the bare stone wall, and let her yellow eyes trail along the peach-coloured strip on the horizon.

***

 **Berlin-Charlottenburg, 30 April 1999, 9:30 a.m.**

Ulla Amtmann was a very proud hotel owner.

As she had every reason to be. The "Pallas Athene" was only three weeks old, and already three-quarters of the rooms were booked. The time of the year certainly helped, with Walpurgis Night -- the night when witches were abroad -- always being a popular reason for her target customership to take a long weekend. But given the fierce competition in the Capital's hospitality business, 75 percent was a more than respectable booking rate for a new hotel. Especially a women-only one.

Ulla's narrowed eye sized up the walls of her bright, practically-furnished entrance hall. It had been a good decision to use Women of Colour GmbH instead of her semi-expert uncle. Not as if the bill hadn't caused her a major stomach-ache, but Ulla Amtmann was of the opinion that professional women should be paid professionally. Even lesbians. After all, _she'd_ be out of a job herself if she gave discounts based on sexual preference. And that yellow sponge paint job had certainly been worth every painful penny.

Yet as pretty as the wall was, even her frugal eye saw that it lacked something, and that was decoration. So here she was, having just put the last batch of hard-boiled eggs and coffee on the breakfast buffet, with a toolbox and a stack of black-and-white photographs of notable women-loving women by her feet, ready to give the entrance hall its finishing touch. She'd have loved to put the pictures into authentic art-déco frames, but fifty marks apiece had been a winning argument for the plain, black ones they sold at the Scandinavian furniture emporium in Spandau. After all, the hotel advertisements had already cost a fortune, and ads were more important than chi-chi frames. Peter from the CityMenZ B&B down the road had begged to differ, but then, _his_ target clients consumed prosecco and Caipirinha, whereas hers preferred apple spritzer and Moroccan mint tea. He had the margins, she the Ikea frames.

What the hell, there was nothing wrong with apple spritzer.

And those frames were perfectly fine.

Hammering Marlene Dietrich to the wall, Ulla congratulated herself on having placed ads in not just one but two relevant publications. The 1999 edition of the _Official Members' Guide of the Registered Association of Certified European Women-Only Hotels (Boys up to Twelve, Pets upon Request)_ had, of course, been a must. But she'd also wanted to reach out to the more hedonistic traveller, the woman who might be inclined to spend a bit more than strictly necessary (which reminded her that she'd have to look up a Caipirinha recipe one of these days). Anyway, that traveller tended to gravitate towards other, more modern channels, and so Ulla had forked over the equivalent of twelve art-déco frames for a listing on www.roaming-tribads.com. To great success, it seemed. That American couple that was due here today had come via them, for example. They'd booked a deluxe double with breakfast. For a whole whopping week.

And interesting Americans they are, she thought as a group of six cigarette-waving women in knickerbockers, pinstripe suits, and sleek dresses joined Marlene Dietrich on the wall. For one, the booking email had been written in fluent, elegant German. If a tad flowery and antiquated in terms of word choice. Well, the writer of that email might be a descendant of German immigrants. Wasn't it like that with migrants, that they preserved old-fashioned patterns of speech? Then again, since when did Americans preserve _any_ patterns of speech of their countries of origin? Not that she blamed them, of course, considering that an American could easily be half-Polish, half-Italian, and half-German.

Did something about that last sentence sound somehow wrong?

And should she perhaps have used a spirit level?

The bell rang as Ulla bit off a length of double-sided adhesive tape to level the likeness of a boyish cabaret singer. Just like old Claire to refuse to even _hang_ straight.

She placed the hammer and tape back into her toolbox, wiped her hands on her jeans, and swept over to greet the two women who had just entered the hall. Like most guests, they had taken about two steps into the hall and then stopped to take in the surroundings. Small nods of appreciation, imperceptible to everyone but the hotel owner who lived for those kinds of signals, made Ulla bless Women of Colour GmbH once more and vow to recommend them to everyone who would listen.

Yet if one asked her, though she knew nobody did, something was off with those women. Or this couple, rather. Just-friends were hardly likely to avoid each other's glance so subtly yet distinctly.

Both were perhaps in their mid- to late thirties, well-dressed, and not unattractive if she might say so without appearing superficial. One was slender, her close-cropped, blond hair and pointed chin a perfect stylistic match to the jeans and dark blue T-shirt from some charity walk-a-thon. The other one, dark and long-haired, and enveloped in a cloud of greenish garments, was the opposite in just about every respect.

"Welcome to Berlin," Ulla beamed, reaching for the heavier one of the green-clad woman's two suitcases.

"Thank you." The woman's voice was warm and clear. Wiping a strand of wavy, black hair out of her face as she readjusted a scarf around her neck, she shot a sharp look at the windows, then the ceiling. "You have no air-conditioning here?"

Ulla felt her cheeks flush. Should she have indicated that in the ad?

"No, sorry …"

"Bless you!" the woman said. "I can't stand those things."

Well, neither could Ulla. At twenty-two pfennigs a kilowatt hour …

"So." She opted for a chipper tone as she led them through the hall and up to the reception desk. "You've picked a nice time for a holiday in Berlin. The weather has been very good this past week, and if you're not too tired, I can recommend a few nice parties for tonight. It's Witch Night after all. I hope you had a nice flight?"

There were two nondescript yes-thank-you-very-muches as replies. It was clear as pickled egg brine that their twelve or so hours on the plane couldn't have been anything short of ghastly, and the turbulences weren't likely to have been in the air.

"So," Ulla resumed as she circled her desk and picked up her ledger. "You are Mrs ... Ms. Thea Jones ..." -- the black woman nodded -- "and ..."

"… Victoria Plank," said the blond woman with the pointed chin.

 _Bang_ , went the ledger as it hit the wood-panelled floor.

***

 **Stoatshead Hill, 6:45 a.m.**

Rolanda Hooch extinguished the pipe after a few drags and cooled it down with a flick of her wand. Truth be told, she'd never really liked the taste. It was the smell she'd always loved, for nostalgic reasons mostly. So when the fancy struck her, she'd take three or four puffs, and given the intensity of the trusted brand, she could be sure that she'd have the smell around her for an hour or two.

More wasn't needed.

Placing her hands on her knees, Rolanda got up from her bench, shoved the pipe into her pocket, and went to the broom shed. No use trying to go back to sleep; she might as well do a quick morning round. The flying boots badly needed a shine, she thought as she stripped off her wellingtons and pulled the brown leather shafts up above her knee. The broom handle could do with a polish, too. Shame, actually, to let such a fine broom go like that, when she'd finally succumbed to buying a Firebolt only last year. It had been a used one because a year in exile had eaten a considerable hole into the budget, but she'd felt like celebrating the beginning of a new era.

They'd been in a celebratory mood then, despite it all.

***

 **Berlin-Charlottenburg, 9:45 a.m.**

Up in the deluxe room on the third floor, Vic carelessly threw her suitcase on the bed and took a rainbow-striped neoprene pouch out of her carry-on bag. She kicked off her shoes, slumped down cross-legged on the bed, and cursed the bloody laptop liberally for taking forever to boot.

"Vic?"

Vic didn't grace the tentative approach at conversation with an answer. Instead, she picked up the photo that the landlady had removed from its frame and examined it with all her attention. Someone had pencilled the names of the six women on the back, in handwriting that was almost impossible to decipher. Yet if the chin was anything to go by, it was clear what name she was looking for.

It actually wasn't possible. But unless the Plank chin gene had miraculously reproduced in someone who just happened to look like Victoria's asynchronous twin sister, from the fair hair and the facial lines to the posture and even the apparent preference for dark-haired women, then there was no mistake.

"Do you want to tell me who this is?"

All right, then. "Look," she said, reluctantly tilting the screen of her laptop just so that Thea could see if she craned her neck. Couldn't keep up this radio silence forever; might as well talk, now that Thea had stopped apologising. And genealogy was a fairly neutral topic, unless you counted Thea's profound dislike for the hobby. But Thea wouldn't dare complain, not now. She'd know better than that.

Vic double-clicked on the file "Family Tree". On the screen there appeared a pyramid of boxes and lines (most of them straight, some intersected -- after all, the choice of mates was limited in the villages of Mecklenburg.) Most boxes had names in them, and small icons that led to pictures or documents with the stories of the people behind the names. When were born, what they'd done for a living, that kind of things. Only one name didn't have much to it.

 _Wilhelmina. Born May 1905. Died late 1916 (rest unknown)._

Vic clicked on the photo icon. A blurry picture appeared, showing a girl who looked decidedly uncomfortable in her white, frilly dress. Blond. Lanky. Plank chin.

No, there was no mistake.

"Grandpa said she was shipped off to some asylum when she was eleven," Her voice felt thick and lumpy as she spoke. "The year before he was born. Different times, Vic, he'd said. People then didn't know how to deal with a girl that wasn't quite right in the head, so one day a woman came to pick her up."

Vic hadn't thought much of the story back then. She'd felt pity for the poor girl, sure, but this had been before parent self-help groups and integrative schooling. They'd kept her with them until she was eleven, so perhaps they'd tried their best. She'd tried to find out more from grandpa, but even though he remembered so many details of his childhood in the German northeast, he knew surprisingly little on the matter of his sister. Or perhaps not so surprisingly, given that he was born after she'd left.

 _Ten months_ after she'd left.

"Shit, Thea." She let the photo sink into her lap.

Thea pulled her legs up on the bed and reached for the photo. Vic noticed with some gratitude that there was no attempt at a compassionate embrace.

"Look at her, Vic," she said, running a hand over the six laughing faces. "She _lived_. She's happy. She's with five beautiful women. Doesn't that count for something? I mean, think of the many women back then who thought something was wrong with them, who thought themselves frigid or hysterical or God-knows-what. And never found love in their whole lives. Maybe never even experienced pleasure."

"Think she did?"

Thea raised an eyebrow and pointed a tidily-manicured finger at the sleek-dressed imp who looked as if she were just about to pinch Wilhelmina's cigarette. "These two? Were _so_ doing it."

Vic had to laugh despite herself. Thea saw affairs and relationships, drama and undying love wherever she looked. It probably had something to do with the fact that she spent her working life channelling the effusions of romantic geniuses whose music tended to be far more varied than their plots.

"Vic?"

There was the hand on her shoulder.

"Don't start." A warning undertone. The tone Vic usually reserved for making pitbulls present their toenails for clipping and spitzes their furry butts for their annual shots.

No, thank you, she didn't want to talk about it. She didn't even want to _think_ about it. What had happened at the baggage claim would have to be discussed, but later. Right now, Vic had something to chew on, and a Plank didn't speak with her mouth full. And all because Vic's mobile didn't work in Europe. She'd taken Thea's to text her mother that they'd arrived safely. Before she'd typed the first word, a double beep announced a new message, from Thea's best friend. It had opened as Vic had tried to exit from the typing field.

And she'd spotted the first words before she could stop herself.

Clearly there had been something that Thea hadn't told her.

"Right," Thea said, biting her lip. For a fleeting moment, Vic felt almost sorry, but she'd really heard enough for a day. Been smothered with words, actually. They'd probably entertained the taxi driver no end on the ride from Tegel Airport to the Pallas Athene. I had meant to tell you. I never thought you'd do this. Don't forget you'd walked out on me. I didn't mean it to be for good. And how was I supposed to know that if you don't talk? You sure lost no time. Do you think I thought it would happen so fast?

Somewhere around the Emperor William Memorial Church they'd settled on giving the topic a break. Or rather, Vic had. She'd have to think about this, and the thinking process wouldn't include Thea. Just as Vic hadn't been included in the doing process.

There remained the small hitch that this holiday was supposed to be the celebration of their making up after a monumental fight a while back. Or was it? Had Thea brought her here for the big reveal? Because it was more difficult to stomp out of a double room in a city full of strangers than a detached house in Seattle with two cars parked on the driveway and a devoted dog who'd follow Vic wherever she went?

"Later, Thea," she said.

"All right." Thea tucked at a sleeve. "Whenever you're ready."

Vic got up from the bed, fished a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her bag, and headed for the door of the balcony. She couldn't stop herself checking quickly for a reprimanding look, but there wasn't one. A small light flared up as she sat down in the small metal chair and propped her legs up on the banister.

"So," Vic resumed when the first cloud had dissolved in the air. "Short nap, and then?"

Thea stood by the balcony door, photo in hand. "And then we go looking for Auntie Wilhelmina."

Vic's eyebrows darted upwards. She stubbed out her cigarette. "What? I thought my genealogy stuff was the snobbish pastime of white wannabe aristocrats?"

"And I stand by that as long as you try to trace yourself back to Charlemagne ..."

"He had _twenty-something_ kids. There's no way _any_ Caucasian isn't in some way a descen …"

"… but if you have an aunt who was declared dead by her family only because she happened to be different, then I want to know about it. And here's your chance to write that contribution for the Lesbian History Project that you've been blathering about."

"That's true, I could do that …"

"You will. What's the number of the reception? Call me fucking Countess Geschwitz if that woman isn't well enough connected in dyke Berlin to locate one of the girls in the picture for us."

***

 **Stoatshead Hill, 7:00 a.m.**

Rolanda kicked off the ground hard. Up and up she circled, until she felt wind in her hair and mist on her cheeks that were still warm with sleep. She'd always loved that feeling of an early morning fly. Let others have caffeine. Rolanda Hooch needed nothing but air and a few icy droplets in her face to feel wide awake, wide alive.

From far above the treetops, well out of sight from the village, she peered down at the cottage that nested snugly between a small forest and the gentle slope of Stoatshead Hill. A tiny piece of thatch next to the even tinier one that was the stable. Two neat, brown squares that should soon be dotted with flowers and vegetables, and a bright green pasture that encircled it all.

A year ago, when Voldemort had fallen, and they'd been able to come back from the Camargue at last, they'd found the premises in ruins. A heap of sooty rocks on muddy soil had been their welcome-home. She'd built it up, alone, with her wand and her bare hands, stone walls, thatched roof, stables and all. Even tiled floors. She'd dug, ploughed, planted. And then she'd flown over to Kettleburn's to negotiate the price of a unicorn mare and a mating.

Not quite eleven months later, the foal was born. Wilhelmina had insisted on getting out of her bed and spending the night on a folding cot in the stable. She'd whispered to the mare, barked commands at Rolanda, and wouldn't let vertigo or headache or frailty keep her from assisting the mare as she went into labour.

Rolanda hadn't seen Wilhelmina so well in months.

***

 **Berlin-Zehlendorf, 11:30 a.m.**

The small, church-run senior citizens' home near the Grunewald was almost nice.

Late morning sunshine slanted through the skylights and bounced off the pale green walls, dipping the long corridor into an almost-natural light. Children's drawings on the walls did what little they could to offset the atmosphere of Lysol, air freshener, and old age.

"Ah, our guests from America!" boomed a hearty voice from the far end of the corridor. It belonged to a woman best described as rugged, with short, plum-coloured hair and rosy cheeks. The name tag on her starched bosom identified her as Nurse Bärbel.

Vic forced a smile. Nurse Bärbel. Arms like a building crane, a voice like an army commander, and probably a heart of pure gold. A raw nugget, the kind that made nurses address their patients in the first person plural, as if the empathy thus conveyed could gloss over the fact that they were allocated exactly seven and a half minutes to wash, brush, and impart a sufficient amount of human warmth upon their charges. What they lacked in time, they made up in volume. And probably spent their evenings tired as logs in front of the television, copious amounts of chocolate and gummi bears comforting the frustrated and exhausted soul.

"She wait for you," Nurse Bärbel explained as she led Vic and Thea down the corridor. "She is so happy that you come. She get more visitors as other people here, but that not mean much."

At the end of the corridor, Nurse Bärbel stopped and gave the extra-wide door a few loud raps before she entered.

" _Besuch für Sie, Frau Kroll!_ " she thundered, cranking up the volume yet another bit.

A happy, wispy voice that didn't sound at all as if its owner were anywhere near as hard-of-hearing as Nurse Bärbel's voice suggested, answered something that had to be a long version of "come in."

"She speaks not English," explained Nurse Bärbel. "Can you..."

" _Ja, das ist kein Problem, Schwester Bärbel, vielen Dank. Ich werde für meine Freundin übersetzen,_ " Thea rattled off . Vic had to hide a smile. Thea loved flaunting her German, especially when people didn't know she spoke it. Or when they knew that either Vic or Thea spoke it and assumed that, naturally, it had to be the stern-looking blonde.

And if Vic was honest, she found it darn sexy when Thea went into La Jones mode.

An ancient, willowy woman sat in an armchair by the open window. Insubordinate, mouse-grey spikes of hair framed a face that glowed like an overjoyed walnut as Vic and Thea approached to shake hands.

"Welcome, friends," she beamed, indicating a squashy, old sofa near a too-high couch table.

Ulla had given them this address. Gisela Kroll was not only one of the oldest lesbians in town, but she also knew Wilhelmina. Or at least the fact that the she stood next to her in the photo, leaning heavily on Wilhelmina's shoulder, about to sneak a puff of her cigarette, suggested some kind of acquaintance. Although Ulla had warned that one could never be too sure with all the goings-on back then.

Thea had called, and indeed, Frau Kroll was a full hit. When she'd let Thea off the phone some thirty minutes later, she insisted that they come over right away.

And so they'd done.

"Ah, yes, Wilhelmina," said Frau Kroll when Nurse Bärbel had left. "You know, I was head over heels for her short hair and her trousers and her arms … and that monocle, oh, my." A girlish smile crept over the wizened face. "But she always teased me that I should grow some hair under my armpits first. Ah, I was a very young thing then. New in the city, earned my first money as a stenographer. Didn't need much food, didn't need much space, didn't know how long the fun would last until things would go to pieces again, so why hold on to money that could be spent on drinks and dresses? Why hold on to the morals of a bunch of men who were already setting about ruining the country we hadn't even rebuilt yet?"

She waited until Thea had finished translating and pushed herself up from her armchair.

"Walk with me. It's so nice outside, and I can't get around much anymore by myself. You, left. You, right. No, no, no, not like that. This way. Good. Let's go."

Vic and Thea carefully gripped the stick-thin arms and guided Frau Kroll down the corridor, step by poorly-coordinated step. The old woman had to struggle for breath as she walked, so the conversation paused often, but when they left the building and headed for a group of padded chairs in a sunlit spot, she inhaled deeply and smiled.

A cat approached and jumped onto her lap.

"Friends, this is Felix." She tickled the tomcat's striped tummy until he gave a dutiful purr. "Your aunt Wilhelmina had a way with beasts, did you know that? Worked at the zoo, she'd told me once. No education, hadn't finished school or learned anything decent. Rumour had it they'd kicked her out for a crush on a teacher, but I don't know about that. We were all mad for some Fräulein or another back then. Nobody thought much of it unless you got too serious about it. Anyway, the people at the zoo didn't care for papers and certificates. Saw Wilhelmina and her hand for animals and hired her on the spot, and she was only seventeen then. Best breeder they'd ever had, they say. They'd tried for ages to breed the Nashörner (-- pardon? -- erm ... like small elephants, only with horns on their noses? -- oh, rhinos.) And guess who finally got them to do it?"

She slapped her knee as if she still couldn't believe it, which made Felix give her an austere look.

"Oh, yes," she continued, "your aunt Wilhelmina was a lady of many talents. Or perhaps lady isn't the right word." She chuckled. " _Bubi_ , that's what we called her type back then. Little Boy. But even that didn't fit her right. She wasn't a boy -- oh no, she was a right young gentleman. Didn't dance well, no real sense of music, but oh, did she hold you in those arms of hers. Never been swirled around a dance-floor like that again, no matter she was always off beat. Never even seen arms like those again. But then, how many women do you know who pulled a baby rhino out of his mother's you-know-what? Do you dance?" She looked at Vic, who waited for Thea to translate.

"Not really," Vic admitted, and could have bet that Thea rendered that as "I totally stink at it."

"Well, you should never give up trying. If you're anything like your aunt, then it only takes a little musicality, and you'll be perfect."

"I'm afraid, Frau Kroll, that I'm not the musical one in the family."

"Ah. You, then?" She turned to Thea. "Dancer?"

"Singer," Thea answered.

"Ah. Jazz, yes?"

Vic braced herself for a detonation. Thea loathed jazz with a passion worthy of a metal-breasted semi-goddess. It was an allergic reaction from overexposure: being black, Thea was all too often taken for a jazz singer instead of the aspiring Wagnerian heroine (and actual Wagnerian supporting water-creature) she was.

"Opera." And if it wasn't a genuine smile in that face. "That's how I learned German."

"Ah. Very nice. I was never much into that, except the occasional Knight of the Rose. Do you do trouser roles? No? Well, as I was saying, your aunt Wilhelmina was a perfect gentleman. One of you girls wouldn't perhaps have a cigarette for an old woman?"

Vic paused. This _was_ an old people's home … Then again, what was life without a little sin? It didn't seem as if the residents had much opportunity for that in here.

Vic took out her cigarettes and rummaged for the matches. Not the lighter. If she was going to do this, it would be in style. She held the pack out for the old lady to help herself, then clenched one cigarette between her own lips, and leaned forward. Lit the match, placed her left hand over Frau Kroll's to shelter the tiny flame and the two tips against an imaginary gust of wind, and Frau Kroll loved it.

"Thank you, my dear."

She took a deep drag and heaved a blissful sigh. "Where were we? Yes, you wanted to know when I last saw Wilhelmina. Well, I can tell you exactly. It was on April the thirtieth, nineteen-hundred and thirty-six. Witch Night, like today. We had a party planned, a few friends and a bit of drinks and dancing. They'd closed our bars three years before, you know, and we usually tended to lay low. It wasn't as bad for us as for the men, but it always happened that a friend of ours was arrested on some charge or other. Better not be too conspicuous or, God forbid, get your name on any list. But the one thing we wouldn't let them take away was our Witch Night party. Because what's life without a laugh, a dance and a kiss? Might as well braid your hair and put on the flat shoes like those soap-scrubbed daffodils. That's what we called them, our nationally-minded girls. _Narzisse_." She snipped the ash from the tip of her cigarette at the tulips in the nearby flower bed as if they had anything to do with it.

"She'd arrived at the party with another woman. An Englishwoman. You could see it immediately. Tall, short-haired, angular. Cheekbones to die for. Bit of a _Sportmädel_ , as we called them. Muscles and all. I can tell you, they were quite a pair. Forgot the other one's name, but I'll never forget her face. The most intriguing eyes I'd ever seen, and I'd looked into quite a few. Very bright, almost like a wolf's. And the profile, oh, I'd never seen a nose like that. If she'd been a man … _Wie die Nase des Mannes, so der Johannes_ … do they have that saying in English? Long nose, long _Johannes_ , get it?"

Yes, Vic had a fair idea.

"I remember we took bets if they were sweethearts. It would have been a bit unusual, since they were both the virile type, but they somehow seemed to have found something in common."

The cigarette was finished and had ended up among the politically suspicious tulips before Vic could offer to take it to a bin.

"You know, I think she was maybe Jewish. They spoke Yiddish, anyway, at least I thought that's what it was. They had this one word that they kept repeating." A dimple appeared in Frau Kroll's face. " _Kvidditch_. Judging by how their voices dropped when they said it, you bet it was something naughty. _Play kvidditch_. My later sweetheart and I kept using that until she died, back in eighty-eight. To mean … you know. And I forgot the other word they used. The thing you play kvidditch with. _Snitch_ , that's what it was! Guess you only need to put two and two together to figure that one out."

Frau Kroll elbowed Thea and Vic so conspiratorially that Vic nearly choked on her cigarette with suppressed laughter. That sent Frau Kroll into another giggling fit, and soon the three of them were laughing so hard that Felix jumped off the old woman's lap, and a window was slammed shut three floors above.

"Anyway," Frau Kroll continued, and the lightness in her voice was suddenly gone. "Things took an unpleasant turn that night. We danced and drank a bit, your aunt's English kvidditch girl perhaps a bit too much. Not used to our beer, I thought. They went out to catch some air, and were never seen again."

"You didn't look for them?" Thea looked appalled.

There was a pause.

"Dear girl," Frau Kroll said. "I came home at seven in the morning that day to find that they'd taken my brother. In honour of Labour Day, I take it. To make a point. He was a communist."

"I'm sorry," Thea muttered.

"Don't be. You can't know what it was like, and I wouldn't want it any other way. But to answer your question, no, I didn't look for them. I never forgot, but then, the terror this country had brought upon itself had only just started. By the time it was over, we all had lost so many, we were glad for the ones that returned to us alive. But if you find her, will you let me know?"

There was no tear in the old, red eyes, just a fluttering eyelid.

"Promise," Vic said, gently pressing a wrinkled, spot-covered hand.

They sat there for another while. Felix had come back, and Frau Kroll repeated a few things Thea hadn't caught, and a few things she had. Until, all of a sudden, she looked at Vic's oversized watch.

"Good heavens, is it one already?" She pushed herself up from the lawn chair and took Thea's and Vic's arms. "You must excuse me. I have an appointment with a young thing who just moved in. Not seventy-five yet. Nice, deep voice, still got all her marbles and her original knees and hips, I hear. Going to show her the ins and outs of this place, see that she settles in nicely. Maybe she likes playing rummy."

"Or kvidditch?" Thea ventured with a grin as she pushed open the glass door.

"You naughty thing." Frau Kroll chuckled and turned to Vic. "Is she always like that?"

"Worse." To Thea's credit, she translated even that.

"Good. You keep her."

They'd arrived at the young thing's door. Frau Kroll made them promise to be in touch as she kissed both of them on the cheeks. Then she readied herself to knock, and Thea and Vic withdrew politely.

"Erm … Frau Kroll …" Vic whispered, beckoning Thea for help as the old woman turned around.

"Remember that it's bad manners to go for the Snitch right on the first date, okay?"

The wispy laugh and the gleaming eyes told Vic that perhaps she'd been wrong to think that they didn't have much opportunity for sinning in the small, church-run senior citizens' home near the Grunewald.

***

 **Stoatshead Hill, 11:31 a.m.**

Rolanda landed softly and swung her right leg across the broom handle.

The flying had done her good. There really were no words that could describe the feeling of wind in the face and morning air in the lungs, of the updraught that carried her, the gusts that propelled her, and the tiny movements of a hand or thigh that slowed her down, sped her up, changed her course. Comforting, it was. Whatever might be beyond your control, whatever the fates might choose to give and take away at will -- there was always a stick with a few twigs that invariably carried you wherever you wanted, whenever you wanted, however fast you wanted.

Sometimes, it felt life-saving.

The grass made squishy sounds as Rolanda trudged to the broom shed by the back door. She'd decided to use the vigour she'd gleaned from the flight to give her Firebolt that much-needed shine right away. The door to the broom shed opened with a creak, and she reached inside to fumble for the broomstick servicing kit. It was dark in there; she hadn't got round to putting up lights yet.

Groping from left to right on the small shelf in the back, her hand suddenly hit something familiar. A broom handle, plain and straight, not remotely as smoothly-finished as the Firebolt's with its excellent gripping properties and ergonomic hand piece, but no other broom had ever felt as good to her as this one. Even after seventy-nine years, it couldn't fail to make her smile.

Her old Silver Arrow. It no longer held very well in the air. She'd always kept the charms up to date, but somehow she could never bring herself to replace the old, age-worn twigs, limp and beyond maintenance after she'd had to de-mould them some time in the seventies. But this broom was still able to send her flying every bit as much as when her Da had let her mount it for the first time.

It had carried across her first fences and helped her negotiate her first trees. It had won her her first match against Ravenclaw, back in '23. And it had flown her to a most memorable outing, sixty-three years ago to the day.

Witch Night 1936. The day she'd met Wilhelmina.

Replay  
First Chaser Rolanda Hooch from the Chudley Cannons eyed the object in her hand with considerable suspicion. Fleshy-brown, firm, some eight inches long, it didn't really look like anything she usually considered putting into her mouth. But she was hungry, and a generous helping of mustard and two slices of bread went some way to mask the awkward shape of the thing. Besides, when in Rome ...

Her brows shot up in reluctant appreciation as she braved her first bite. It tasted better than the appearance of the thing had suggested. Not to mention its name. Wurst. Took a kraut to come up with a name like that. She took another bite. Well, she thought, if this is the wurst this place has to offer, I might survive here for a day or two.

Merrily devising further puns of a similar quality ('brat-wurst for the wurst brat'), Rolanda climbed up the stairs ('better a brat-wurst than a prat-wurst') and made her way to the East Wing of the Berlin Quidditch Stadium. The standee section, where the unwashed masses stood and cheered.

As always.

True, her boss had gone to great trouble and expenses to procure her an excellent seat in the grandstand, facing northeast so that she'd have the sun in her back, equal view of both sets of goal hoops, and perfect coverage of the depth and the corners of the pit. After all, she had a job to do.

Alas, as it was, Rolanda hated the grandstand. Loathed it with a passion, even. As far as she was concerned, grandstands were a necessary evil because their well-paying occupants generated the lion's share of the teams' salaries, but the people ... the people in it were always so ... she hated even to form the word in her thoughts. It was the harshest verdict a Quidditch player could pass. But there was no skirting it. It was what they were. The people in the grandstand were _dignified_.

And that was why Rolanda greatly preferred the cheap seats. Or the non-seats, for that matter. Chock-full of people with painted faces, screaming and sweating under their too-warm robes and shawls in the colours of their teams. Blue-and-white for Bertha BQC Berlin, dotted with the occasional black-and-yellow for the Heidelberg Harriers.

"Pardon ... excuse me ..." she muttered as she wriggled her way into one of the less packed rows, carefully negotiating bag, omnioculars, notepad and quill, and that mustard-smothered brat-sausage, all the while doing her best to keep an eye on the pitch, where the game had just begun.

She stopped dead as she felt a gush of wind from the wake of a tiny Berlin Chaser, who had just dodged a Bludger from a Harrier and was now zooming towards one of the Heidelberg goal hoops. Excellent movement, but a most spectacular miss. She took a few notes for her boss -- she'd have to get the name of that Chaser just in case -- and brought the omnioculars to her eyes. Then there was a bit of tackling now in the nether regions of the pitch, and Rolanda was surprised to hear sound of a whistle. It hadn't been anything serious, just a scratch and a bit of blood. No teeth lost, no limbs broken -- no English referee she knew of would have bothered about it. All the better, though, if that meant that she'd get to see a penalty.

The Heidelberg Chaser hovered in the penalty zone and cradled the Quaffle in her hand. Rolanda whistled softly through her teeth. Stone-faced, seemingly going straight for the Keeper's navel, the Chaser took aim. Bold as brass and impossible to predict. That Keeper would have a thing coming his way.

"Whoa!" Rolanda dropped the remains of her indigenous lunch on the planks of the East Wing. A phenomenal save if she'd ever seen one! The Keeper hadn't moved until the Quaffle was on its trajectory, then dived over to the right goal hoop and kicked the offending object out of the way with a surprisingly graceful giant swing around his broom.

"Amazing!" Rolanda bellowed and pressed the replay button on her omnioculars. Replay was a rather new invention, and the image was seasickeningly shaky, but it would do. She watched the save a few times, then raised her wand to her temple and dropped a nice, clean memory into a small phial. Coach would like that.

To her right, Rolanda heard a throaty laugh.

"Don't get your hopes up," said a deep, chesty voice that didn't bother to conceal its amusement. "Heinz Bell has more witches queuing for him than Gellert the Godly himself."

Rolanda blushed and lowered her omnioculars. "I wasn't ..."

Fast-forward  
As often as she'd remembered that scene afterwards, it never failed to make her smile.

She'd never got to finish that sentence. For at that very moment, on Witch Day 1936 at ten to zero for the Harriers, she caught her first ever sight of Wilhelmina Plank. Even sixty-three years later, she was glad that she'd already dropped the sausage before that. It had spared her considerable embarrassment.

Looking back, Rolanda couldn't possibly tell which one of them spoke the first coherent sentence after the encounter, and whether it was before or after the fits of laughter that had gripped first Rolanda, then Wilhelmina.

It had been mutual recognition at first sight.

Rolanda's curly hair hadn't been quite as short as Wilhelmina's, and her wide-legged trousers under short sports robes still qualified as borderline feminine (or so Rolanda had told herself), but Wilhelmina had told her much later that she'd sized her up every bit as quickly as Rolanda had made out Wilhelmina. It had been in the eyes, she'd said. In the unmitigated happiness at seeing a woman in chequered flannel and short hair, her sleeves rolled up to reveal Beater-like forearms and a men's watch.

And Rolanda fully believed that her expression had betrayed her. She remembered the feeling as if no time had passed. Like looking into a mirror, only better. Only knowing that what she saw wasn't herself but the living proof that she was not alone.

Now, it wasn't as if Rolanda had never had moments like that. She'd had moments of recognition. Of herself, first, even though that still had required considerable help. Then of others. Of a few who'd turned into lovers, sporty girls from the Cannons or Harpies, a groupie once, and, alas, one reporter. But they'd all been more the long-haired type, not the ... well, not _like her_ , as she'd have said back then. The terminology came much later.

Sally the physiowitch had been like her. Forty years her senior and ugly as a hag, but none the unhappier with her lady friend of a quarter century. Then there was her cousin Susan's bratty daughter. Now, there was definite, once she'd grow out of playing cauldron thief and hit wizard.

And old Professor Marchbanks had been like her. The gruff Deputy Headmistress, who had never said so much as a private word to her until one disastrous in-lesson meltdown that had won Rolanda an instant detention. And when she'd showed up on shaky legs at the doorstep of the first floor office, Professor Marchbanks had simply indicated a hard-backed chair in front of her desk, lit her pipe, and said: "Nothing that comes from the heart is wrong." She'd paused before she went on: "You will write that one hundred times. No, leave that quill, child. Not now. You will write it once every morning before breakfast. For the next one hundred days. You may go."

Only much later had Rolanda learned just how well the Deputy Headmistress had understood her. It was when Rolanda had seen her at the funeral of Charlotte Vance, one a late autumn day in 1944.

Replay  
"What brings a Cannon to our dreary end of the league?"

Wilhelmina shot an amused look at the orange-and-black pin on Rolanda's chest as a cigarillo somersaulted out of its packet and between Wilhelmina's lips. "It's not as if our old lady Bertha were doing any better than you this season. HEY, SCHMECKENHAUER, SUDDEN TURBULENCES?"

Rolanda laughed. It was true. The season was almost over. If Bertha BQC Berlin were to lose yet another game, and given the quality of the star-studded Harriers team that was likely, they would incur the fate that the Cannons had narrowly escaped only last season. And the season before. And the one before that.

"Work. I play for the Cannons. Got sent here by my coach."

Wilhelmina made a sound of recognition as her wand lit the cigarillo. "Still Weston Grubbly, is it?" she asked through clenched lips.

Rolanda nodded, surprised. Admiration wasn't often in peoples' voices when the conversation turned to the bearded, big-bellied Cannons manager. Being the kindest soul on earth didn't win you points with your supporters. Not since 1915, when that kindness had involved spending the entire annual budget on a dozen administrative jobs for English, French and Belgian Squibs to spare them the trenches of Northern France. The Cannons had no more recovered from the hole that that had torn into their finances than Weston Grubbly had recovered from the one that Maurice the Belgian Squib had torn into his heart.

But Weston Grubbly was of the old-fashioned opinion that sportsmanship meant always to put the needs of the many first, and that it was better to risk losing if it meant that one could save a life than to win at all costs.

"To be honest, I'm playing vulture," Rolanda explained. "We're hoping to gain from your misfortune and hire a few players, should they feel like leaving in case ... you know ..."

"I know," Wilhelmina said grimly.

"Good thing, though," she continued after a while. "A job abroad will come in handy for some of them. See that Keeper? Heinz Bell. Got a Muggle fiancée. Not something that endears you to Warlock Goldilocks. MAN, MY GRANDMOTHER WOULD HAVE SCORED THAT ON HER DUSTMOP!"

"You're not one of his supporters, then?"

"What, of Earl Greater Good?" Wilhelmina snorted. "Don't think anyone here in the East stand would wear a Grindelwald jersey. Grandstand, that's different. All his cronies and followers now. A class of their own. See the purple and black robes? Too posh for blue-and-white these days, the folks over there."

She took a deep drag of her cigarillo and scowled. "Didn't use to be that way. I remember times when there were Muggleborns in the expensive seats and die-hard purebloods here with the rank and file, Ministry official next to craftswizard next to newspaper boy. WHAT IS THIS, TAI CHI OR QUIDDITCH?"

Their conversation came to a temporary end as the match caught their full attention again. Not because it was particularly riveting. Rather, because it was over.

The whistle blew, and the score flashed up.

Home 10. Away 180.

There was a moment of stunned silence in the East stand. For a while, everything was so quiet that one could almost hear the hard reality drop on the rough-timbered planks. Finally, there was a solitary sniffle behind Rolanda. " _Auf Wiedersehen, Reichsquidditschliga_ ", moaned a burly wizard, and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with the blue-and-white flag in his rough, chapped hand.

"Sorry," Rolanda muttered.

Wilhelmina said nothing. She stared at the pitch, blank at first, then sad. And then she pushed her long chin forward, straightened her shoulders, and turned to Rolanda.

"Well. Seems we've got one thing less to take our minds off our sorry lives now." She dropped the remains of the cigarillo and stepped on it. There'd be a Vanishing crew later on.

When she looked up, there was a pause. Rolanda felt a question on the tip of her tongue, but she wasn't sure if it was appropriate to ask it. After all, she'd only just met the woman. And she didn't want to come across as if she had designs. For she didn't, not really, or at least she didn't think so, anyway certainly not at this point.

"Staying in Berlin for longer?"

The question had caught Rolanda in mid-musing. "Pardon?"

"Are you staying on a bit? Surely you won't go right back to England after this sorry excuse for a match?"

"Erm, I'm not sure." Which was true. She hadn't given the matter much thought. She knew that Witch Night (she could never remember its proper German name) was a big thing around here, but as she had no acquaintances anywhere near, she hadn't made any plans. Yet if she truly wanted to resume her conversation with this woman -- and she did -- she'd better come up with a reason not to hop on her Silver Arrow right away.

"I was thinking about that big annual thing on the Blocksberg ..." she improvised, hoping that she'd remembered that right and it wasn't at Samhain.

"Wouldn't recommend that," Wilhelmina said, shaking her head. "It was nice until a few years ago, but then the Muggle brown shirts started taking over the place. Back to the old Germanic roots, that kind of thing, as if witches and wizards were a national heritage. The place is so packed with them that there's hardly a spot left for us."

"Oh." Well, that settled the matter, then.

"On the other hand ..." Wilhelmina ventured.

"Yes?" Rolanda asked, in a tone that would certainly have earned her a thorough scolding from mother for being eager.

"Well, I'm not sure. If you cared to see how Muggle women celebrate Witch Night ..."

"They do?"

"Some do." Wilhelmina paused, taking a breath.

Rolanda knew that sort of talking pause. She'd made her share of them, too, trying to sound out if she was _really_ on track with the woman she was speaking to, lacking words and ease to ascertain it more directly.

"It could be fun," she hazarded. If only Wilhelmina meant the kind of women Rolanda had in mind. A similar conversation had once landed her in a London den full of cages, whips, and handcuffs. But somehow that seemed unlikely here.

"I happen to have an invitation," Wilhelmina said casually. "Just friends, a bit of music and dancing and games. Dreadful food, I'm afraid, but the drinks are fine. Unless you have other commitments ... and there would be no obligation on your part, of course. I'm a terrible dancer, but you'll find a lot of ..."

"I would love that!" Rolanda exclaimed.

Fast-forward  
As Rolanda's mind flew down memory orbit, she sat down on the bench with the Firebolt on her knees. With movements practiced countless times, too much a part of herself to be mechanical, she polished the handle. Up and down, left and right, in small, regular circles.

She remembered having gone on a lengthy explanation that she'd have to leave now in order to try and catch some of the players, because Coach Grubbly wanted her opinions not just how the players played but also what kinds of people they were, and whose need for a British work permit was greatest, and that she was sorry that she didn't know how long that would take. She didn't know at the time that if there was one thing that was entirely superfluous with Wilhelmina Plank, it was lengthy explanations.

Wilhelmina had cut her short by simply taking a small card out of her pocket.

"You'll find me here. Come any time you want to; I'll be at home. When you're there, just silently read what it says. The revealing charm's on the parchment; it'll do everything for you. Has to, we've been accommodating a lot of Squibs lately. Just don't let it end up in the wrong hands."

Rolanda squinted at the handle to inspect if she had done a clean job. The Firebolt shone as good as new. If she kept polishing it a little more she'd begin taking off the finishing.

Whatever might have become of that card?

***


	2. Chapter 2

***

  
 **Berlin, Federal State Police Archives, 1:51 p.m.**

 _"Now?"_

The pale, bespectacled snowy owl trapped in the body of an archivist looked as if Vic and Thea had just confronted her with a most indecent proposal.

Vic gave a small smile, tilting her head just as she'd learned it back in Behaviour Research for Beginners. Calming signals worked with most every mammal.

It really hadn't been much more than a hunch to try the police archives. But as an amateur genealogist, Vic had done her share of relative-hunting. If, as Frau Kroll had said, Aunt Wilhelmina had disappeared just after she'd left a probably illegal party, chances were that the police had been somehow involved. And then there'd be records.

So after they'd left Frau Kroll a little past one o'clock, Thea had hailed the very next taxi and told the driver to take them to the police headquarters, wherever those were. Then she'd taken out that damn mobile and made a few phone calls. Generous inflections of the voice had suggested ample use of La Jones mode. Vic wondered for a second just how Thea knew what numbers to call. But really only for a second, for she wouldn't put it past her lover to call the emergency hotline and ask to be put through to the superintendent himself. Thea had her own ideas of appropriateness.

After a bumpy, probably longer-than-strictly-necessary ride in a stuffy Mercedes with black leather seats, the driver had dropped them off at a busy crossroads surrounded by monumental eyesores.

And in the basement of one of those eyesores, an archivist whom a cheap paper sign on her formica desk identified as Irmgard Schmidt, was just shooting an incredulous look at the clock on the livid-green wall.

"Very well," she snapped, underlining the magnitude of the discomfort with a sigh. "May I see a proof of affiliation with the historical department of an academic institution, alternatively an ID of a respectable press product? I'm not a public library, you know."

"Actually, it's more of a private matter," Vic began. "I'm looking for my great-aunt."

"Ah," the snowy owl said drily. "Well, how lucky for you that I only filed the great-aunts last week. Back there under G, between the grandsons and the great-uncles."

Vic made a mental note. Calming signals apparently no use on Berlin civil servants.

"It's for a le...living history project," Vic explained. "My aunt must have been arrested here in '36, and I was hoping to find some proof of that here."

"Are you an academic?"

"Yes," Vic said. "Did my doctorate on the Danes." And Great Danes they had been.

"Well," declared Irmgard Schmidt and pushed herself up from her chair. "I suppose it'll be another day of unpaid overtime, then. Date of arrest?"

When they asked for the records of the night of 30 April to 1 May 1936, Irmgard Schmidt threw up her hands in despair. Beckoning them to follow her, she briskly strode down a dimly-lit corridor lined with plain, metal shelves and indicated a sign that said "1. Mai 1936".

What they saw stunned them into momentary silence. That wasn't just a folder; it wasn't just a foot or two of shelf space -- it was an entire bloody shelf, floor to ceiling, tightly packed with archive boxes and a few plain binders. For one bloody night.

Apparently, it hadn't been a slow night for the Berlin police. "Small misdemeanours, heavy drinking and a bit of crime against property are common for May Night," Frau Schmidt explained. "Add to that a few hundred arrests of communists, socialists, and unionists to show that Labour Day was no longer a socialist but a _national_ socialist affair. And these here are only the records that survived the war, so I can't guarantee that you'll find your aunt here even if she was arrested."

The boxes were labelled with codes, numbers, and words. Part of the order was chronological, but there must have been another system on top of that, for Irmgard Schmidt had begun to ask a few questions ("Party? What party? You have to be more precise. Degenerate music? Expressive dance? Sado-maso orgy?")

"Ah, no," she tutted when she had her answer. "That doesn’t fall under homosexuality." She bent down to look at a lower shelf. "Let's try antisocial behaviour or corruption of minors -- don't look at me like that. You would much rather have been tried as an antisocial child molester than a homosexual back then."

She then indicated a section at the very bottom of the shelf and proceeded to load herself with more boxes than a middle-aged archivist, even a Prussian one, should anatomically have been able to carry.

"There," she said as she slammed the last of the lot on a metal table illuminated by eye-numbing neon light. "Now wait here while I call the regional chairman of Velspol."

"Of what?"

"Of the Association of Lesbians and Gays in the Police Forces."

Imagine that.

"He'd still be in his office at this time on a Friday?" Thea asked, looking at the clock on the pale green wall in surprise. She knew they'd been lucky that Frau Schmidt hadn't called it a week before they arrived.

"Of course not," Frau Schmidt said drily. "But I think he and my son should be home from their weekend shopping by now. Start with the first two boxes; I'll be right with you."

So she was. And not just she.

For forty-five minutes later, one regional chair, one lesbian officer on standby, three idling interns of various identities, and a retired policeman from around the corner had flocked into the basement and busied themselves leafing through box upon box, binder upon binder, document upon document. Vic was baffled, but Robert, who was head of the local Velspol chapter and Frau Schmidt's quasi son-in-law, explained patiently that their only chance lay in going through each paper individually, and that that was exactly what they were going to do. All they asked was that the research result, should there be one, would be used to make the case public. And a voucher copy would be nice.

It was POM Lisa Kohlhaas who finally found the needle in the haystack: a plain, yellowed sheet, with a clean cross of neat creases over pale typewriter letters, not a dog's ear marring its still-crisp edges. Stamped several times, signed in black ink, and annotated liberally in almost completely faded pencil, it must have gone through at least six pairs of hands before it was filed.

There remained the small issue that it was written in German.

Thea cast a quick glance at the letter and decided that this was a case for the native speakers. And very soon, Irmgard Schmidt and their helpers had entered into a parliament-quality debate over verbs, nouns, and prepositions, outbidding each other in convoluted turns of phrases that weren't much less cryptic to Thea or Vic than the original German.

At last, they settled on a compromise. The fastest typist among them -- Tanja the superintendent's intern -- would type up the body of the letter and run it through an internet translation engine. And if the result was total crap, they'd discuss it again.

To Vic's utter delight, the result was -- although unanimously judged an offence to language, taste, and Goethe -- usable (especially given that it was a Friday afternoon), and while Vic and Thea were bidding fond goodbyes to the helpers, liberally studded with invitations and offers to reciprocate, should any opportunity arise, Irmgard Schmidt clicked "Print". Not without indicating most graciously that, as their foreign guests, they would not be charged for the copy.

Vic had already sat down with the letter and was just beginning to peruse it, but Thea suddenly seemed strangely in a hurry.

"Thank you so, so much, Frau Schmidt," she purred. "We don't want to eat any more into your well-deserved weekend. You know, if we ever ..."

"Yes, I know, you're welcome," Frau Schmidt said curtly, switching off her monitor and pulling plugs out of their sockets. As she placed an empty Tupperware container into her bag, grabbed her jacket, and rummaged around for keys or whatever, Thea and Vic took leave and disappeared, smiling.

Well, that had been most efficient.

When they were out on the pavement by the busy road, Vic stopped and took the sheet out of her bag. Leaning against a bicycle stand, she unfolded the paper and took a deep breath.

It read:

> _Reference-taking to your above mentioned inquiry to the incidents of 1 May 1936 I permit myself the following comments to make:_
> 
>  _The Wilhelmina Plank (born 10.5.05, resident Berlin W30) and Rolanda Hooch (born 21.2.12, resident Chudleigh, England, British citizen) were on 1 May by 0 Clock 20 by Hauptwachtmeister Karl-Gustav Ihering and Oberwachtmeister Dietrich Diederichsen arrested. Frl. Plank and Frl. Hooch had just left a private danceevent, the possible illicit nature in a separate investigation to further illuminate is. The clothing of both women is unequivocally as mannish to qualify; the Frl. Hooch made a slightly upbeat imprint. Underway to Görlitzer Park, they were by two members of the SS approached, who to the ladies their accompaniment to protection against immoral nightly nearings offered. For no reason attacked the women, whose physique is as manfully to describe, the men. It is likely that they thereby sneaky and surprising proceeded, to compensate for natural genderly disadvantages. It was apparently use of cutting weapons made. A chancely passing police stripe stopped, took the women solid and drove them to headquarters on the Alexanderplatz._
> 
>  _On 1 May at 6 Clock 35 they were because lacking criminal history and available remorse from custody released._
> 
>  _p.P._
> 
>  _Encl.: Pocketcontent Frl. Hooch. Possible hint at immoral danceevent location (decoding necessary)_

  
Vic let the sheet sink into her lap and shook her head before she handed it to Thea.

Something didn't tally. She knew that resistance had become dangerous in Germany by the mid-thirties. However butch her aunt may have been, it somehow didn't ring true for two women to go around beating up Nazis at night.

And not to be charged with assault on two such precious specimens of national flesh, blood and brain.

So either ... but she didn't even want to consider the option. Or ... and that really, _really_ didn't seem likely.

"Vic?"

Vic frowned. "I don't know what to make of it. Either they disappeared, and I don't even want to think about that, or they somehow got out of that prison. But if they were released, why weren't they ever seen again? All I can imagine is that they had to go into hiding -- but why?"

"Persecution?" Thea ventured as she handed the letter back to Vic. "If that other one was really Jewish and Aunt Willie was her lover?"

"No." Vic shook her head. "Not in thirty-six. Jews were losing their jobs and their possessions, but not their lives. Not at that point. And you heard that owl down there. Dykes weren't considered a national threat. I mean, two women couldn't really have sex, right? I read somewhere that lesbian sex ..." -- Vic nodded politely at an elderly gentleman whose head shot up from the bicycle he was unlocking -- "... was equalled with mutual aid in bodily hygiene. Anyway, that's beside the point."

"Hm." Thea touched Vic's arm and pointed at a small coffee stand by the crossroads. Vic nodded gladly. That nap in the morning hadn't really merited its name, and anyway it was breakfast time in Seattle.

"It hurts me to say it, Vic, but I think it really may be what you fear," Thea said as they slowly walked down the Columbiadamm. "But now that we've come this far, we're going to find out as much as we can, or it'll be a damn short article for the Lesbian History Project. Two coffees, please. As black as you have it."

As they waited for their coffee, Thea opened her shoulder bag.

"I didn't want to give you this until we're safely out of reach from Frau Schmidt," Thea began as she rummaged. "What with your Prussian ethics and all."

A small card, yellowish and with ragged ends, much like thick parchment -- if that wasn't exactly what that was -- appeared out of the dark depths of the bag. Something was penned on it in black ink. Three words, hardly legible, written in Old German cursive.

Vic shot Thea a puzzled look. "What ...?"

"Well, let's just say this must have fallen into my bag as our fellow rainbow riders were deliberating vocabulary."

"Thea!"

"I know. Theft in the first. But, darling, what we have here is the pocket content of that Hooch Fräulein they refer to in the letter. And as such, it must have been written by your aunt. Gosh, Vic, don't you think you should have this? I know how much things like that mean to you. And it's not like they'd miss it; that archive box has never been opened."

Vic twirled the little card in her hand. It was soft and smooth to the touch, and if Vic had been more sentimental she'd almost have said that holding this piece of parchment was a bit like feeling a connection with the aunt she never knew she'd lost.

It was almost magical.

"What does it say?" Vic asked.

Thea shrugged. Her Wagnerian and Schubertian German might be antiquated, but that only went for the spoken part. As to handwriting ...

"Excuse me?" She'd turned to the elderly man with the bicycle who had joined them at the coffee stand and just ordered a small coffee and a warm sausage from a steamed-up glass container. There was a short exchange; Thea showed him the card, and the man chuckled as if he had just looked at a particularly amusing cartoon.

"Why, it says _Hotel am Nollendorfplatz_ ," he told Vic, still grinning. "Funny woman, your aunt, yes?"

And with that, he shook his head, repeated "Hotel am Nollendorfplatz ..." with a wide grin, and was gone.

Nollendorfplatz ... she'd seen that somewhere. On a map, underground or city or both. Or was it in the women's travel guide, section "Places of Interest"? And how many meanings could the word "Hotel" have in a language?

"I'd like to go there."

"What, _now_?"

Yes." Timidly. "Do you mind?"

Thea shook her head, stifled a yawn, and raised her hand. "Taxi!"

***

 **Berlin-Schöneberg, 30 April 1936, 6:51 p.m.**

 _Splash!_

That was the contents of the puddle from a leaking water pump as it landed on Rolanda Hooch's trousers, courtesy of a cackling newspaper boy on a bicycle.

Rolanda muttered an array of curses under her breath as she shook a fist at the boy, who was, of course, long out of sight. She fervently hoped that the drying charm she'd slipped in between the expletives would pass unnoticed by the people in their cheap suits, shabby dresses, and babyshit-coloured uniforms who strode past her on the pavement by the tram stop at Nollendorfplatz.

It had been easy enough to get there. After she'd finished up by the Quidditch pitch and neatly filed away the preliminary declarations of intent signed by Heinz Bell and the tiny Chaser -- a hopeless case but in desperate need of a place to emigrate to -- she'd transfigured her broom into a bassoon case and hopped onto the tram that Wilhelmina had told her to take.

Nollendorfplatz was impossible to miss. Six streets and various tram and omnibus lines met around a small park studded with young trees, and in the middle sat a monumental elevated railway station, topped by a dome of steel and glass, surrounded by copiously-adorned tenement buildings.

When she'd returned her robes to a presentable state, Rolanda looked around. _"Hotel am Nollendorfplatz"_ was what Wilhelmina's card said. Needless to say, there was no hotel around. Not that Rolanda had expected that; it would be bit of a blatant giveaway if the card ever ended up in the wrong hands.

Rolanda carefully scanned her surroundings. Wizard folks being what they were, they could be trusted either to go for the plainest, best-concealed building -- or the exact opposite.

And Nollendorfplatz definitely sported one severe case of the latter.

She crossed the park, walked past a smelly but lovingly-decorated green shack that went by the term _public needs establishment_ , and headed toward a monumental, light grey blob of a building. A theatre, obviously, and not one of the more tasteful specimens. This had to be it.

She reached into her pocket, took out the card Wilhelmina had given her, and formed the words in her head. She fervently hoped that the charm on the parchment allowed for a certain leeway in mental pronunciation.

 _"Hotel am Nollendorfplatz."_

Needless to say, the guess was spot on. It wasn't so apparent at first (big, glamorous reveals didn't do in busy inner-city areas), but the trained eye could easily see that something had appeared that hadn't been there before: a brass sign that read _Hotel am Nollendorfplatz_ and pointed right, into the direction of what looked like a stage door. Rolanda followed it, for once blessing the dratted bassoon case on her back for the authentic looks it no doubt gave her as she put a hand on the door handle. It didn't turn easily, and she went about it with care -- one never knew with unknown magical places -- but it did open. Timidly, she ventured in. There was nothing but dark space, smelling slightly musty, like a cabinet that hadn't been aired in a long time. Her right hand inconspicuously wrapped itself around the wand in the back pocket of her trousers, just to be sure. She stuck her head in, and something that felt like cobwebs brushed past her nose. Not exactly welcoming.

Yes, this had to be it.

As soon as she'd taken a step across the threshold, the scenery changed. Small chandeliers flared up, the walls and the ceiling retracted almost politely, letting fresh air in through wood-latticed ventilation holes and turning the dark, stuffy closet into a small but dignified-looking entrance hall that smelled of floor wax and old oak. A doorwizard was dozing behind the counter of the porter's lodge, a copy of the _Morgenprophet_ covering his face and dancing on his deep, forceful snores. To Rolanda's left, a large board with brass signs listed the names of the tenants. _Wilhelmina Plank_ occupied one of the flats on the top floor, up one hundred and twenty-nine steps that groaned under threadbare sisal carpets, past a trapdoor that probably led to the attic and then to the left.

The hello was friendly but not overly showy, just as Rolanda preferred it. She took off her boots and caught her breath with the help of a kitchen chair and three large glasses of water. And after that, not much time passed until Rolanda Hooch found herself half-dressed in Wilhelmina Plank's small but cosy bedroom.

Smoking a cigarillo stuck into a slender, brown cigarette holder, Wilhelmina lay sprawled sideways on her oaken bed, surrounded by heaps of discarded clothes. Most of them were her own. Her old wardrobe stood wide open, and while there hadn't been much inside to begin with, it now was almost completely empty.

Meanwhile, Rolanda stood in front of a tall mirror and craned her head to see if Wilhelmina's black trousers fitted better around her well-trained gluteus than the brown ones or the dark grey ones. She'd tried all kinds of charms, but since she'd never been the best at needlework, with or without needles, the results hadn't been grand. Yet this ... this would do perfectly. It sat nicely tight around the buttocks, accentuated the slim waist and flat stomach, flared just right so that the fabric didn't bulge around the abductors but let her legs seem positively _endless_ \-- yes, this seemed like just the right choice for a night out with Muggle girls.

"Dashing," Wilhelmina agreed, and a dimple appeared on her cheek.

There remained the question of what should go with the trousers. The off-white polo shirt that Rolanda had worn under her sports robe could certainly be transfigured, but after an afternoon in the standee section it was, alas, far beyond the best deodorising charms. Yet there in the wardrobe, between a shapeless flannel monstrosity and a khaki vest, Rolanda spotted a shirt. It looked slim-cut, with black-and-white vertical stripes and a white, starched collar. If Wilhelmina didn't mind a little alteration, reversible of course, it might be just the thing.

"Mind if I take the sleeves off that?" Rolanda asked as she pointed at the coveted object in the wardrobe.

"Not at all." Wilhelmina motioned for Rolanda to help herself. "Have your way with it. I rarely wear it anyway. Prefer the earthy tones myself. More friendly towards paw prints and rhino hair."

And so it was that half an hour later, Rolanda Hooch and Wilhelmina Plank boarded the elevated railway, one in black-and-white, one in brown tweeds and a flat cap, a matching necktie fastened to a starched shirt with a silver tie clasp. Two brash Berlin _bubis_ , dressed to dance and dally with the damsels.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Rolanda began as they stepped into the yellow train and squeezed between a woman with a basket full of potatoes and a man in a brown uniform. "How is it that you speak English so fluently?"

Wilhelmina smirked. "Couldn't really help it. Father was a Muggle merchant, and unnaturally fond of the German royals."

Rolanda frowned. The logic eluded her.

"The fellow I was named after wasn't just our Emperor; he was also a grandson of Queen Victoria's," Wilhelmina explained. "He loved England and all things English, and so, of course, did my father. Also traded a lot with London and Birmingham, which probably accounted for some of the fondness. So little Wilhelmina had an English governess, right until her eleventh birthday."

"When you got your Durmstrang letter. Wait, no…" Rolanda could have bitten her tongue. Durmstrang didn't take Muggleborns.

"No, indeed. I went to the Blocksberg Institute for --" Wilhelmina lowered her voice with a glance at the man in the seat next to her, "-- Girls. On my eleventh birthday, one of their teachers came to me and asked if I knew why my dresses were always torn even when I didn't play outside, and why I had a fork-tailed terrier following me wherever I went. Crups don't take to Muggles, usually." Wilhelmina looked around once more to ascertain that all the other train riders were busy only with themselves. "Best day in my life if you ask me. Of course Mother and Father didn't think so."

Wilhelmina had stopped there, and Rolanda didn't push on. She'd heard her share of stories of young witches and wizards whose parents refused to believe the simple truth. Of children who were sent to lunatic asylums, or shut up at home, much like some wizarding families hid their Squibs, actually. Of eleven-year-olds who found themselves faced with the choice of denying their gift -- or losing their families.

"This is it," Wilhelmina said as they'd reached their stop.

They filed out of the train, down a flight of stairs and along a busy street. Night had fallen, and the yellowish light of gas lanterns made their shadows dance around them as they walked.

"You'll like this," Wilhelmina said as they passed an open gate that led into a stuffy courtyard surrounded by tall, dirty-brown walls. "Our nightlife isn't what it used to be, but I daresay that Lotte's parties for friends are still among the finest in the country."

The house seemed deserted. There was no light in the narrow staircase, so they had to make do with the fallow moonlight that shone through the windows and otherwise rely on their hands and feet. It smelled of dust and old wood, and Rolanda's left hand felt tears in the wallpaper and crumbling plaster wherever she reached. She also considered it more than likely that a rat with a full bladder had passed through not too long ago.

But as they reached the second landing, the stench was quite forgotten.

Muffled laughter and piano music and the scent of perfume, cheap wine, and cigarettes crept through the cracks in the frame of a carved, wooden door.

Wilhelmina knocked. Three times short, once long, twice short.

"WILHELMINA!"

The door flung open, and a young girl in a black faux silk dress and an equally black, wavy bob flung her arms around Wilhelmina.

 _"Langsam, langsam, Gisela,"_ Wilhelmina groaned in mock distress and plucked the girl from her neck. " _Gisela, das ist Rolanda."_ And, turning around: "She doesn't speak English. Your luck if you ask me. Speaks like a waterfall"

 _"Willkommen, Rolanda."_ Gisela raised herself on her toes and pressed a very red kiss on Rolanda's lips.

Rolanda decided that the party was getting off to an excellent start.

Half-pulled by the young girl, Wilhelmina and Rolanda snaked into the narrow hallway of the flat. The lights had been dimmed with red and lavender scarves, and joyful piano tunes carried over from one of the rooms in the back. Two women in skirts were busy cutting cheese and arranging small sausages on trays, and a sturdy wearer of trousers carried a beer crate past half a dozen couples of all flavours and in various states of entanglement lining the corridor. She greeted Wilhelmina and Rolanda with a hearty handshake and introduced herself as Lotte, their hostess.

Wilhelmina stopped here and there to peck cheeks and the occasional lip, allow herself to be hugged, and hold small chats. Some of the party guests, as Rolanda noted with delight, spoke English rather well. It was because of the wireless, Wilhelmina explained. English news. And some broad way melody, whatever that was.

"I don't really dance except when Gisela forces me," Wilhelmina murmured. "But if the opportunity presents itself to you, any opportunity, mind you, don't hold back."

"Thank you," Rolanda whispered. Truth be told, she was beginning to feel a tad overwhelmed. She'd been to small gatherings of like-minded friends, but _this_ …

Peering into one of the rooms, Rolanda saw a row of six chairs, neatly arranged by the blinded window. Upon each of them there was a leg, stockinged or with trousers rolled up. Their owners were lined up behind them. Another woman was busy blindfolding three others, and there were names on a small blackboard in the corner. What exactly the game consisted of, Rolanda couldn't tell. It had to be either vote for the prettiest calf or guess its owner.

After a few more steps, hellos, and shakehands, they reached the source of the music. It came from the room all the way in the back, larger than all the others and almost the size of a small ballroom, only narrower. More women, in pairs or groups, skirts or trousers, ties or low necklines, were sitting around an eclectic mix of tables and chairs or standing by the makeshift dance-floor. A handful of couples were on it, doing various degrees of justice to the tunes produced by the short, plump pianist's frolicking hands.

A small shape elbowed its way towards them. In the half-darkness, Rolanda saw that it was Gisela. "Come," she said, or something like that, and pulled her on the dance-floor.

Well, why not. It was a party after all, and what better way could there be to converse with someone whose language one didn't speak …

They started with a jitterbug. Now, that was right up her alley. Then there was something German that didn't pose much of a problem to Rolanda, either (the rhythm was, well, German, and the movements corresponding), and then there was another jitterbug. Gisela shrieked with joy all through their three dances and probably wouldn't have let go if it hadn't been for a red-dressed blonde who staged a playful catfight in order to assume Gisela's place for that jitterbug and the next waltz.

"Stop!" Rolanda begged when the last chord of the waltz had faded and the pianist, thankfully, reached for a bottle of beer. Even Coach's less merciful training sessions allowed for more breaks than those two girls. Laughing, Gisela set out to fetch two glasses of wine and one of beer. Arm in arm, they clinked glasses with the blonde, who introduced herself as Fanny. With a kiss.

It was heaven.

The beer went down quickly, and Rolanda noted how much more refreshing it was than English butterbeer. Her thirst quenched and her dance partners seemingly satisfied for the moment, she scanned the room for Wilhelmina.

She spotted her at the far end of the room, chatting with the pianist, who had just spread out various sheets of music and readied herself to sit down again. Wilhelmina caught Rolanda's eye, toasted her, and Rolanda excused herself with Gisela and Fanny to head for the piano.

"Congratulations," Wilhelmina grinned. "You seem to introduce yourself most favourably."

But before Rolanda had a chance to answer, an unexpected sight caught her attention.

A brunette in a summer dress had entered the room. Now, that alone wasn't extraordinary in a setting like this, even if this specimen was decidedly stunning and probably more confident than all the others combined. Yet what made her so striking was the company in which she was. He was perhaps in his late thirties, about Wilhelmina's height and similarly dressed, but dark-haired.

There was a radiant smile in the woman's made-up face as she crossed the room, her high-heeled feet carefully placed just so that her hips swayed perfectly under a slender waist. The man followed at a respectful distance.

"Mina," the woman said, leaving little doubt that she was used to having attention when she spoke. And then she slung her arms around Wilhelmina's neck, placed her red, parted lips dead centre on Wilhelmina's -- and let them linger there for a long, long while.

As if that sight hadn't been curious enough, the man now stepped forward to greet Wilhelmina as well. Rolanda could have sworn that Wilhelmina would reciprocate his warm embrace by a few gentle pats on the back. Instead, she saw to her great astonishment that Wilhelmina leaned forward and put the lips that had just left the woman's on those of the man.

And Wilhelmina had said that their nightlife wasn't what it used to be?

When the introductions had been made -- the woman's name was Ilse, the man's Friedrich -- the pair produced a bottle of champagne and a few glasses.

"Time to celebrate!" Ilse said, her voice as smooth as the silvery foam that ran over her hand. Her English was almost flawless but heavily accented, a bit like what Rolanda had once heard in a Muggle film. Although that actress might have been Swedish. Or German. She never could tell them apart, those two. "Friedrich's aunt got him a job in New York. She insists that he'll be the death of her, first marrying a shiksa and then losing his job into the bargain …"

"... but the sheer goodness of her soul and generosity of her spirit once more got the better of her," Friedrich continued as Ilse filled their glasses. "We're leaving on the sixteenth."

"Good for you," Wilhelmina said and squeezed them both into a gentle hug. The smile was genuine, if perhaps not completely happy.

Apparently, Rolanda's bewilderment at the whole scene had not escaped Ilse. A dimple appeared on her left cheek as she turned to her. "Dance?"

And within seconds, Rolanda found herself back on the dance-floor. Luckily she'd caught the pianist's eyes before she was scooped off, and the tune slowed down considerably.

"I'm sorry," said Ilse. "I'm sometimes a bit of a steamroller. I didn't see that she was with you, otherwise I might have kept the greeting a little shorter." She winked. "Might."

"Oh, it's not that," Rolanda hurried to clarify. "We're not … erm ..."

"Oh." The corners of Ilse's mouth dropped in disappointment. "I thought … Well, things that aren't may still become."

"Erm …"

"She deserves a little happiness," Ilse continued. "God knows she never had it easy. Disowned by her family, expelled from her school when she fell for a teacher …"

"Don't we all do that?" Rolanda asked, puzzled. She'd certainly never fancied Professor Marchbanks, but young Professor Vector had been a regular in her pubescent dreams. And her bratty cousin Amelia just couldn't stop rhapsodising over Miss Roberts, who taught sums at Ottery Primary School. "It's usually not a big thing, is it?"

"No," said Ilse. "Not usually." She let go of Rolanda's shoulder and circled her slowly, a hand lightly trailing her waist. "But some teachers are only humans, too."

Ilse did an elegant pirouette, and Rolanda lost her to Lotte for a few measures.

"Sorry," Ilse said when she was back. "As I said, she deserves some happiness. What Friedrich and I had with her was nice, and I like to think that we didn't take advantage of her too much, but it's good that it ends this way." She turned again. "Good for her anyway."

Rolanda could have sworn that Ilse's voice had sounded thick just then, but it could have been the music.

"Promise you will look after her for me?"

Rolanda nodded. She would try. Give it her damn best shot, actually, if Wilhelmina wouldn't mind having her as a friend.

And Ilse, who in some select cases seemed to prefer tangible evidence to verbal utterances, put her arms around Rolanda's neck and said thank you to her the way she'd said hello to Wilhelmina.

More drinks were in order after that.

Thanks," Rolanda said as Ilse picked up two glasses when a girl with a tray passed them. It really was tastier than what she knew from home, the beer over here, and considerably colder. And somehow, it seemed to be almost as magical as its wizarding counterpart. It made all the colours so much brighter, the music gayer, the women even more beautiful with every sip.

Yet those weren't the only effects it had.

"Erm ... Ilse? Where's the loo?"

Ilse laughed and took Rolanda by the arm. "How many of these have you had?" she asked when Rolanda blinked to make a fleeting spell of dizziness go away.

"Not sure ... three?"

"Well, you'll need to a bit more practice, it seems," she said as she knocked back the last of her sparkling wine and put the empty glass on a dresser in the corridor. "Make sure you visit Mina often." She opened a small door by the front entrance and gently shoved Rolanda inside. "Call if you need any help." With a wink, she closed the door.

When Rolanda reappeared, Wilhelmina was outside, laughing.

"Having fun?"

"Oh yes! I love it here." In fact, now that she felt about three pounds lighter, she was just about ready for another round of the same.

"Well, I suppose we take a little walk then. A little air makes the fun last longer. And truth be told, I could use a break myself. Gisela is after me, wants to teach me some new American dance she's learned. Heavens, I can't even manage the German ones."

They walked down the stairs, slowly, for Rolanda had to admit that the steps did seem a tad more uneven than when they'd come up. And the fact that the moon no longer shone as brightly through the dirty windows didn't help, either.

Down in the cobble-stone courtyard, Wilhelmina lit another cigarillo.

"There's a park down the road," she said, indicating the direction with the cigarette holder.

The air did Rolanda good. It felt cool against her cheeks and worked miracles against the pixies in her head. She didn't know how many of those came from the beer and how much from the excitement, for it sure had been a most memorable evening so far. She couldn't remember ever having danced with so many women and been kissed by so many pairs of lips in so short a time. She couldn't remember ever having been so relaxed at a party, since she'd hardly ever been to one with someone other than a fresh lover or a love interest who kept you constantly on your toes, or some other single acquaintance with whom she'd hooked up for no other reason than dreading to go alone. She couldn't remember ever having done something like this with a _friend_.

"Wilhelmina?"

"Mmh?"

"How come you have so many Muggle friends?"

Wilhelmina took the pipe out of her mouth. "Long story," she answered, and resumed her smoking.

"Just long or long and secret?" They turned around a corner. Wilhelmina shrugged.

"Just long, I suppose."

The park lay ahead of them. Patiently and wordlessly, they waited for a car to pass, then crossed another tree-lined street and slowly began walking down a gravel path that snaked along a poorly-kempt lawn.

"Thought I'd finally found my place when I arrived at the Blocksberg Institute," Wilhelmina began after she'd dropped the stub of her cigarillo and stepped on it with a brown-and-white brogue. "You know, no longer the odd one out who always has inexplicable scorch marks on her dress or strange-looking animals following her. Suddenly, I knew what I was and that there were others just like me, and I thought everything would forever be fine."

"What about your parents?"

Wilhelmina shrugged. "Never had much use for me. Mother had always wanted a boy, but a real one, not some failed attempt at one like me. Probably got pressure from her mother-in-law. Six sons, she'd had, that one. As for father, he lost interest after he'd discovered that I was no better at sums than at needlework and the violin."

Wilhelmina indicated a small bench under a tree, and they sat down. "So Fräulein Vaclavik from the Blocksberg Institute seemed like a Godsend."

She took a deep drag from her next cigarillo. "In every possible respect."

She didn't have to explain that. Fräulein Vaclavik. A name that rung of starched high-neck collars with intaglio brooches. Of curly strands springing out of tight buns when the word "detention" was spoken, of austere fairness, relentless efficiency, and a soft, Bohemian accent.

And if only part of that was true, Rolanda knew she would have fallen for her, too.

"But everything wasn't forever fine?" she asked after a while.

More time passed. Twelve tiny plumes of smoke accompanied the lazy, muffled strokes of a far away church tower.

"Let's just say the wizarding world didn't have a place for all of me."

And as the small clouds of smoke dissolved into the Kreuzberg night, Wilhelmina spoke. Spoke of a young girl who had thought she'd arrived but found that she didn't fully fit in with the new world, either. There was a place for her magic, or what little the Fräuleins had managed to teach her. But not for her looks, her thoughts, her passions. Not even the Blocksberg Institute had had a use for that. Or perhaps particularly not the Blocksberg Institute.

And so one night in March, Wilhelmina had left, without prospects or certificates, without goodbyes, just with a suitcase and her Crup, and went to find herself a job. The magical menagerie in Zwackelmannsgasse wasn't hiring, and her once-best friend's father, Magical Creatures Healer Hugin Fafnersen, had slammed his door in her face before she'd even got to say more than her name. So she'd tried the Muggle world. And the pachyderm section at the Berlin Zoo had only been too happy to take her.

One thing had come to the other. From her first money, she'd bought herself a pair of Muggle men's trousers and a pack of cheap cigarettes. There had been no family to complain, no friends to embarrass, so she'd reckoned she might as well do as she pleased. And one day -- she'd just mucked out the rhino compound and gone to take a well-earned break under her favourite tree -- she'd seen a woman sitting on a bench opposite her spot, perusing a magazine. The woman had appeared to take no notice of her, but when she'd looked up just for a moment, Wilhelmina could have sworn that she'd winked and tilted the magazine just so that a bare-breasted woman leisurely sprawled out in a grove by a lake became visible. The title informed the reader that this was a magazine for the _woman friend_.

She'd come back every Friday, the woman. Reading, Wilhelmina smoking. Until one Friday morning, Wilhelmina had taken a detour on her way to work and searched the well-stocked kiosks in a dingy area somewhere in Neukölln, where nobody knew her. That day, it had been Wilhelmina who read and the woman who smoked. And conveniently dropped her matchbox.

"So," Wilhelmina concluded. "S'pose you can say I leave my private life out of the wizarding world and the wizarding world out of my private life."

And those were supposed to be modern times.

"Let's walk," Rolanda said after a while.

They got up and resumed their slow walk across the lawns. Cheers and music from May Night celebrations carried over from the nearby tenements and pubs, and a woman was giggling somewhere behind a bush. A lone old man with a fat pug shuffled past them towards Görlitzer Strasse. Otherwise, the park was deserted.

Or so Rolanda had thought.

For as she tried, timidly, and perhaps inspired by the uplifting effects of the beer, to slide her arm under Wilhelmina's, in quite a sisterly way, Wilhelmina emitted a holler that easily put her earlier displays in the Quidditch stands to shame.

Rolanda didn't understand a word of the tirade that followed, but the volume and the colour rising in Wilhelmina's face gave her a fair idea. Before Rolanda could sort her thoughts or even tell what exactly was going on, Wilhelmina had darted forward, her hand on the seam of her trousers where she'd hidden her wand.

With a brusque "YOU STAY BACK!" in Rolanda's direction, she was storming towards two men in black uniforms who hunched over what Rolanda now saw was a man, pounding him with their fists and kicking him with feet clad in boots that meant business.

Another man was hobbling away towards the bushes, frantically pulling up his trousers.

 _"HALT!"_ Wilhelmina shouted at the two men, and again something else Rolanda didn't understand.

The men turned around, grim-faced, testosterone-laden pugnacity in their voices as they sneered their answers towards her.

Rolanda had taken out her own wand before Wilhelmina could slide her hand into the seam of her trouser leg.

It all happened fast then. Stunners wouldn't do in Muggle environments, but every witch worth her wand had her arsenal for such cases. A conjunctivitis curse from Rolanda, followed by a prime specimen of a tickling charm, temporarily incapacitated one man. And --

"Bloody hell, Wilhelmina, is that an erection?"

Rolanda stared in disbelief at the tent-shaped bulge in the codpiece of the other man, who doubled over in -- pain? Rolanda wasn't sure.

"How do you think I got those bloody rhinos to do it?" Wilhelmina asked gruffly. "One of the few things I can do with a wand."

A rhino erection. That explained things. Wurst of luck for the SS man.

"Careful!" Wilhelmina shouted. Her victim had apparently recovered from the shock and was darting towards them, horn first. Rolanda muttered a quick spell and slashed her wand through the air, twice, leaving a bleeding gash on the man's face and another one on his hand.

"Run!" Rolanda yelled at the young man on the ground, who had begun to scramble up, holding his flank in agony. She landed a well-placed elbow in the first SS man's stomach, while Wilhelmina's boot went for the second man's groin. Her hand went to her wand, probably to restore the standing properties of his nether bit, but both men had obviously decided that they'd had enough and opted for disorderly retreat.

Laughing, Wilhelmina and Rolanda slapped each other on the back and turned around, arm in arm.

The fun didn't last.

 _"Stehenbleiben!"_

As Wilhelmina and Rolanda stopped and raised their heads, they looked into the barrels of two handguns.

***

"Crap", Rolanda muttered as a pair of handcuffs clicked around her wrists.

"Silence," said the policeman who shoved first her, then Wilhelmina into a dark green van.

Defence would have been useless. Better wizards had drawn the shorter end of the stick when faced with Muggle fire weapons -- and they probably hadn't even dropped their wands in shock like Rolanda had. Hippogriff feather and beech, the last one made by old Mr. Ollivander before he'd handed the business over to his son. Rolanda wondered if she'd ever recover it.

She racked her brain for a way out. Wilhelmina probably hadn't got to Apparition lessons, and Side-Along Disapparating wasn't an option. Not that she knew a safe spot to Apparate to, Wilhelmina's flat being Unplottable and everything else out of reach for her skills. But even if she knew a place, it was never advisable to Disapparate in front of Muggles unless one intended to return in order to Obliviate them. And Rolanda certainly intended no such thing. Her wandless skills were poor, probably not much superior to Wilhelmina's skills _with_ a wand. And Wilhelmina didn't seem to think it wise to put up resistance, either. The warning look in her face had been quite clear.

The ride wasn't terribly long. They drove down a few stretches of straight roads, and through the small window in the back of the van, Rolanda seemed to discern the sparkling surface of a river. All of a sudden, the car stopped, there was a short exchange with someone outside the vehicle, and then they slowly progressed into a courtyard of some sorts, paved with cobblestones.

 _"Hier entlang,"_ barked the officer who had ridden in the back of the van with them, grabbing Rolanda hard by the arm and yanking her forward. Thus escorted by the driver and their watchdog, Wilhelmina and Rolanda stumbled through a large glass door with the forbidding profile of an eagle above it. Never had a pair of wings seemed less protective.

 _"Da hinein."_ The officers shoved them into an interrogation room and slammed the door shut behind them. There was no furniture except for a few chairs and a cheap-looking table, illuminated by the fallow light of a bulb under a metal lampshade.

"What are we going to do?" Rolanda whispered.

Wilhelmina placed her finger on her lips.

Not now, she mouthed.

***


	3. Chapter 3

***

 **Berlin-Schöneberg, 30 April 1999, 5:12 p.m.**

"Bastard!"

That was the first word Thea uttered after the taxi had dropped them off at Nollendorfplatz. Trust that bloody convertible to have hit what had to be the whole city's sole remaining puddle from that morning's rain shower. Vic felt the corners of her mouth contract into a smirk and hastened to focus her attention on her bag. She'd wanted to get that card out, anyway. Not that she hadn't learned its contents by heart long ago; after all, it was only three words.

 _Hotel am Nollendorfplatz._

When the grin was safely stifled and Thea's anger dissipated, Vic looked up. Nollendorfplatz was not a pretty square. Actually, it wasn't a square at all, more of an urban traffic hub. Streets arriving from all directions neatly dissected it into small chunks that made walking around it near-impossible. The bulky elevated railway station in the middle didn't help, either. There was no map, only a large sign announcing the imminent restoration of the art-nouveau dome, affordable style. And a triangular plaque of red marble that commemorated the homosexual victims of the Nazi regime. In terms of other notable buildings, the square boasted an ugly supermarket, an even uglier nineteen-sixties high-rise, and a positively hideous ex-theatre, whose ground floor was occupied by cheap clothes shops, a long-distance call shop, lottery kiosks, and a downmarket gambling hall.

Nothing that looked even remotely like a hotel.

"Excuse me!" Vic approached a young bald-head in designer specs who was unlocking a posh bicycle from a lamppost. Bicycle and dog owners were usually good bets if you wanted local directions; she knew that from experience. "Do you know where the Hotel am Nollendorfplatz is?"

"Hotel am Nollendorfplatz?" The man sized them up as if doubting the seriousness of the question. "Well, it could be here," he smirked at last. "But it could also be at Wittenbergplatz. Maybe even Fehrbelliner Platz ... Who knows?"

Vic found that very rude. "Pardon?"

"Don't worry; it was the first thing I looked for when I moved here, too. Good luck finding it!" He swung his leg across the bicycle, waved at them, and zoomed off, narrowly missing mothers with prams, people with shopping bags, and probably quite a few traffic regulations into the bargain.

What a strange type.

Vic looked around and scanned her surroundings for a more promising victim. A dog owner, however, reacted in a way that wasn't much different, and an old woman just laughed and shook her head. An elderly Turk shrugged. And a woman with a young boy grinned and said: "Oh, I loved that book when I was a child."

"What book?"

"Why, the one in which you found it. I didn't know it was translated into English."

"But ..."

"Sorry, that's my bus!" The woman grabbed her boy, and darted off to the bus stop. "Try the antique bookshop around the corner! Childrens' section!"

Thea had found a small kebab stand and taken off to procure two diet soft drinks. When she came back, shrugging because the master of the doner spit had insisted that there was no hotel at Nollendorfplatz (only further down Motzstrasse; he knew the receptionist; should he call them?), she handed one of the bottles to Vic, who had sat down on a tree box in front of the gambling den and looked unhappy.

"Any luck on your side?"

Vic frowned and shook her head. "Thanks," she said as she unscrewed the bottle. "Everyone seems to think it's a joke. Like some fictitious place from an old children's book they all seem to have read around here."

"Hm." Thea deposited her bottle next to Vic and reached for the card. "Maybe auntie wants us to do a little detective work." She twirled the card in her hand but couldn't possibly imagine how the plain parchment might offer any more of a clue than the three words written on it. _"Hotel am Nollendorfplatz,"_ she read aloud, pensively.

Could the word _hotel_ have any other meaning in German? Did the preposition _am_ really just mean _at_?

 _Hotel am Nollendorfplatz._

"Hey, was that there before?" she suddenly asked and pointed at the corner of Motzstrasse.

Vic followed Thea's index finger. There was a small brass sign. Not large, not conspicuous, but definitely there. _Hotel am Nollendorfplatz_ , it read. With an arrow that pointed right.

"Holy crap, how could we have missed that?" Vic downed the last of her too-sweet, guaranteed lemon-free lemonade and chucked the bottle into a bin. They followed the arrow, past the graffiti-adorned entrance of the theatre, past a small sausage stand and yet another kiosk. Nothing looked even remotely like a hotel entrance. They walked on until they reached a shabby, brown door.

"Doesn't look like much of a hotel to me."

Thea shook her head. "I'd have said it's a stage door."

Vic shrugged. Different countries, different hospitality industries, she assumed. And if there were windowless bars where you had to ring a bell to get in, perhaps that also went for hotels. Except there was no bell. Shooting Thea a questioning look, Vic placed her hand on the ancient brass handle. A thick layer of patina suggested that this hotel, should it ever have been one, hadn't had much business of late.

Thea nodded, and Vic pressed.

The door was heavier than it looked, and the noise it made as Vic pulled it open was so pained that Vic was surprised it didn't turn any heads. Inside, it was dark. Pitch-black, even. There was a bit of a rotten smell, and Vic wrinkled her nose. Clearly, that was no hotel.

She just wanted to shut the door again when Thea briskly stepped forward and grasped for the door handle.

Of course.

A stage door.

Give Thea Jones anything with the word _stage_ in it, and you could trust the magical attraction to work.

"I just want to take a look inside, see what it's like," she whispered. "Looks like it's deserted. Come!"

It wasn't really breaking, only entering, was it? It wasn't locked. And there wasn't a No Entry sign, or a name by the door. Besides, tourists usually got away with things, didn't they? Perhaps it might be all right just to take a look. And backstage areas _were_ interesting; even Vic found that. But it might be wise to devise an excuse quickly, should anyone ask them just what had made them open the inconspicuous stage door of a long-abandoned theatre, which might after all be someone's private property, perhaps even that of a nasty, unforgiving financial type. Vic was just debating how plausible a feigned attack of agoraphobia might sound, when suddenly the scene changed.

It was as if someone had switched on the light.

 _Infrared sensors._

Chandeliers flared up on wood-panelled walls, the most cunning imitations of real flames Vic had ever seen. The air-conditioning must have gone on, too, for the musty, dusty smell of only a few seconds ago had quite vanished. Thea's hand mechanically darted to her neck and pulled one of the lavender scarves a little tighter. Strangely, the room also seemed a lot bigger now, but that could easily have been the light and the fresh air.

To their left, there was a small cubbyhole that looked like either a porter's lodge or a reception. It was deserted. In fact, the only signs of a human presence were some radio sports commentary blaring over from behind the cubbyhole and a bit of mild swearing.

"Hello?" Thea shouted.

Vic looked around as they waited for a reaction. A large, wooden panel hung on the wall, with engraved names on brass signs. This hotel seemed to be a tenement of some sort. Perhaps for tenants who preferred their dwellings to be somewhat anonymous. Celebrities? Vic didn't recognise any of the names on the panel, but that didn't really mean much. She also didn't see a "Plank" on the board, or any Wilhelmina for that matter.

"Anyone there?" Annoyed at the lack of response to her first attempt, Thea had decided to step up the volume. She had now arrived at Schubert mode. Next would be Strauss. _"Ex-CUSE me!"_

And if that failed, she still had Wagner.

Well, that porter or receptionist certainly had it coming.

 _"HELLO-O-O-O-O?"_

There was shuffling and groaning in the background, and the volume of the radio went down, accompanied by much muttering. Next to her, Vic noticed some mild, restrained tapping of fingers on the counter -- index and middle ones only; Thea was obviously doing her level best show patience -- as a tiny, ancient man appeared behind the window.

 _"Ja?"_ A pair of red eyes squinted at them though thick-lensed spectacles. There was an uncomfortable feeling to it, almost as if the man were trying to scan their pockets and read their characters. What he saw didn't seem to satisfy him, for a distinct frown had appeared on his forehead. Vic wouldn't have been surprised if he'd asked them to pass through a metal detector next.

 _"Wir suchen Frau Wilhelmina Plank,"_ said Thea.

The red eyes bulged just for a second.

" _Ham wa nich,_ " he said. Thea looked decidedly bewildered. It had to be dialect.

"Not here," the man croaked. "Go away. Now." He paused, as if determined to carry on in English but unable to find the right words. "Good ladies," he added lamely.

"But we were told that we could find her here," Vic lied. "Here." She produced the card, and the old man's eyes bulged even more.

"Where get you that?" he squeaked.

"Never mind," Thea said, haughtily.

"Better go." He waved his hands. "Not here."

"Please," Vic said. "She's my aunt. I need to find her."

The old man shook his head and murmured something. After what sounded like a lengthy debate with himself, he shuffled over to a woodworm-eaten secretary desk, took an old-fashioned pen adorned with a feather -- that was what real quills must have looked like, back in the day -- and scribbled something on a yellowed sheet of frayed paper. He then threw some sand on what he'd written, shook it off, and rolled up the sheet to stick it into a small brass tube.

By Marlene's left tit, they still used pneumatic post in this country.

"Wait," the man ordered. And shuffled back to his radio to swear some more.

After a while -- and what had to be three goals or points or whatever for the other team -- an object clunked onto the secretary desk. It was a brass tube, the same or a different one, Vic couldn't tell. The porter reappeared, grumbling and griping about some Bertha who obviously stank at kvidditch (what _had_ he been doing back there?), and opened the brass tube to peruse the note inside. Then he looked up.

"Third floor, whole left. Not take wrong turn. Fräulein --" Vutslavick? "-- expect you."

Thea heaved a sigh as she looked up the narrow staircase. There was no lift, and the downtrodden steps looked forbidding. The stairs creaked dangerously as they embarked upon their ascent, and the dark brown polish on the banister had become threadbare from at least a century's worth of hands. A new, red sisal carpet fastened with shiny brass fixtures gave the whole scene an air of old, slightly dilapidated dignity.

When Vic stopped and turned left, Thea shook her head. "One more, baby."

True.

On the third floor, European counting, they turned left. Past an intricately-carved door with a polished brass sign next to a silken bell pull, past a not-so-intricately-carved door with a brass knocker, a broom closet, and a small stairway that gave off a distinct aroma of bird droppings, they arrived at the dimly-lit end of the hallway. A small, plain door, hardly visible in the near-darkness, sported a small sign with a name written on it in the crooked cursive of an elderly person.

 _M. Vaclavik._

Vic had readied herself to knock when Thea held up her hand and cocked her head. Soft music came through the door. Languid strings, evoking grain fields that swayed gently in the wind under a blue-and-white sky, perhaps dotted with the red of poppies or the blue of cornflowers.

"Dvořák," she whispered.

It was beautiful, and Vic almost felt guilty for interrupting. But the questions she had outweighed her sense of musical decorum.

So she knocked. First twice, softly. Then, after a pause, a bit more vigorously. Surely Dvořák would understand.

 _"Ja, bitte?"_ asked a soft, old voice.

Thea announced them and said that the porter had referred them.

"Ah, yes. One minute, please." And Dvořák, whom Vic had hesitated to interrupt by knocking, suddenly found himself drowned out by all sorts of noises that sounded like spring cleaning in fast-forward mode. It sounded like furniture scraping across the floor, paper fluttering, doors opening and falling shut, and a cat protesting violently.

After quite precisely one minute, the door opened, and a tall, elderly lady appeared in the doorway. She wore a slim-cut, black dress with a stiff collar and a few subtle ruffles along the buttons. Vic guessed her about eighty, judging by the fine network of lines on her cheeks, denser around her eyes and the stern, serious mouth. Her silver hair was pulled back into a neat bun in the nape of her neck, and she wore no makeup.

"Good afternoon. Please come in," she said and waved them in with a gentle movement. "I apologise for having kept you waiting." The voice was low and quiet, and she spoke with an accent that Vic couldn't quite pinpoint. Her words were carefully strung together in a soft, rolling sing-song, every syllable formed with dutiful consideration. Even her consonants were mild-mannered.

She bade them sit in a clean, well-kept -- if slightly dark -- sitting-room. It didn't look at all as if someone had just gone on a wild cleaning spree. There wasn't a speck of dust on the clavichord in the middle of the room; not a frill of the worn Persian rug looked out of place. And if the room told them that Fräulein Vaclavik approved of cleanliness and orderly comfort, it also said that the old lady was an avid reader. All walls but one were lined from floor to ceiling with dark wooden bookcases, behind whose glass panes large, leather-bound volumes alternated with faded paperbacks, hardcovers with torn dust jackets and a few booklets in plain, brown covers that bore no inscription. There even were a few parchment scrolls.

On the wall by the window stood an ancient, heavy desk. Vic was surprised to see the same quill-like pens that she'd seen downstairs with the porter; only the feathers were fancier. Snowy Owl, Spotted Eagle, Green Pheasant were the ones Vic recognised immediately. There was one that might well have been from a bird of paradise, and one from a tiny, colourful bird -- perhaps a hummingbird. One very large primary, almost resembling a plume of fire with its oscillating shades of purple, orange, and scarlet, looked so much like a book illustrator's imagination of a fantasy bird that Vic was sure it had to be a fake.

They sat down on the sofa next to a beaten but highly-polished gramophone.

"I love Dvořák," Thea said as Fräulein Vaclavik entered the room with a small tray.

"Yes," was all the old lady said as she set down three porcelain cups of the blackest coffee Vic had ever seen and lifted the needle off the record.

"I usually take mocha," she said as she set out to distribute the cups. "If you would like it lengthened, I will get you water. Or milk, for a mélange? I also have whipped cream, if you prefer a Franciscan or a Capucin."

"Thank you," Vic and Thea said simultaneously. "Black's fine," Thea added, and Vic: "If you perhaps had a little sugar?"

"Of course," said Fräulein Vaclavik. She waved her hand almost mechanically, and then, suddenly, held it up as if to stop an unbidden advance. Something crashed in the corridor. "Excuse me," the Fräulein smiled. "It must be the cat."

She got up and went outside. Vic marvelled how straight the old woman held herself. Corset or discipline, or probably both. And she had to be even older than she looked, if it was true that she'd known aunt Wilhelmina.

"I'm sorry that I had not thought of this," Fräulein Vaclavik said as she returned with a small porcelain pot, a huge, scruffy cat in her wake.

"Why, hello, gorgeous," Vic said as the monster jumped onto her lap.

"Careful, Schwejk can be a tad ..."

"Oh, never mind." The animal had curled up in Vic's lap and closed his eyes. "What breed is he?"

"A bit of this and that."

"Well, nice to meet you, Schwejk," said Vic as she scratched him behind his large, pointed ears and was rewarded by an approving purr.

"You have that from your aunt," Fräulein Vaclavik said. A faint smile warmed up her face for a fleeting moment.

"I thought I might have her to thank for it," Vic said. "I hear she worked at the zoo?"

"Yes, I heard so, too." Fräulein Vaclavik's gaze trailed out of the window, and Vic thought that there might have been a small, bitter tinge in her voice.

"Did ... I thought you knew her?"

"Oh, yes, I knew her. Indeed I was her ... we were at the same school. But we lost sight of each other. She took one road, I ... another. How things go."

Vic was hard-pressed not to gape. If Wilhelmina was still alive, she'd be just shy of ninety-four. And if those two had been at school together, then that meant that this lady ...

"I suppose you were a few years below her?"

Fräulein Vaclavik looked at the cup in her hand as if she was inspecting the blackness of the liquid. She gave it a gentle twirl as she spoke. "There were a few years between us, if you mean that."

She looked up.

"I'm sorry I can't help you further. The porter said that you are looking for her. But I haven't seen her in almost eighty years."

Eighty years? Even Gisela Kroll had had a more recent memory than that. Vic couldn't help a faint noise of disappointment. She'd hoped that this place where Wilhelmina had perhaps lived, perhaps danced, hopefully loved just before she disappeared, might tell her something about what had happened that night. But the sincere regret in Fräulein Vaclavik's eyes, so much less distant, almost approachable for a moment, made Vic force a smile. She'd make the most of it. If she didn't learn anything about Wilhelmina's destiny, well, perhaps she'd learn something about her childhood.

"What was she like when she was little?"

"Oh, she was something special," the Fräulein said with her half-smile, pursing her lips to take a tiny sip from the small cup. "Always half a boy, although she did make an effort at the Institute."

"The Institute ... would that have been the asylum that they'd shipped her off to?"

"Asylum?" Fräulein Vaclavik's cup clanged hard on the saucer as she set it down, and an edge had appeared in her voice.

"Is that what you were told it was?" Quieter, again. Vic noticed slow, flat breaths and trembling hands. This woman's middle name had to be Poise. "Dear child, it was nothing of the sort. It is true that your aunt was different, and that she had trouble ... fitting in, shall we say. But she had a gift. A gift that could not thrive unless it was protected, fostered, and channelled by people who knew how to do it. And that is why she came to an institution where she was in better care."

"So ... you were at that institution, too?"

"Yes, what did you think?"

"Nothing," Vic muttered. It had just been that if anyone had ever struck her as sane, sober, and composed, it was this Fräulein Vaclavik.

"But why did Wilhelmina's family sever all ties with her?" Thea asked. "In Vic's family tree she appears as dead."

"They really did that?" Fräulein Vaclavik folded her hands and fell silent for a few heartbeats.

"I had hoped that they wouldn't," she continued. "When I heard that they had a little boy not a year after Wilhelmina had been picked up and brought to the Institute, I thought that that would help them accept their girl a bit. If they had someone to carry forward the name, I thought, continue the business, have a few healthy children of his own, they could arrange themselves with that other child. The one who hadn't turned out as expected."

Fräulein Vaclavik excused herself and got up from her armchair. She slowly walked to the window, leaned on the sill for a heartbeat, and then straightened her shoulders and pushed the window closed with as much force as composure permitted.

"What was she like at school?"

"The most helpful child I'd ever met." The cat had left Vic's lap and curled up by Fräulein Vaclavik's feet. "And always surrounded by animals. I remember she once brought an injured dog into the classroom. The teacher couldn't bring it over herself to send it out. Even after it had recovered. There was only one thing Wilhelmina was never good at, and that was her lessons. There, it was she who needed help. And I sometimes gave her extra coaching in the evenings."

"You?" Vic asked, incredulous. The old woman must have been damn bright as a girl.

"Yes, I." Fräulein Vaclavik gave a sad smile. "Perhaps my biggest mistake."

And there was something in Fräulein Vaclavik's distant demeanour, in the way she clenched the handkerchief she'd pulled out of her sleeve, straightened her long spine yet another bit, that told Vic not to press on. It wasn't necessary, either.

"What happened after she was expelled?"

"You know that?" Fräulein Vaclavik sounded surprised, but again, only for a second. "I heard that she moved to Berlin and found work at the zoo. I had thought that she would find a job that would allow her to use more of her special talents in healing. She had a letter of recommendation, but it seems the word of a young teacher without reputation did little to help her case."

"And you never saw her again?"

"No. Never."

There was something definite in her voice, and Vic knew that the Fräulein considered that part of discussion over. Vic decided to make one more attempt and then leave it at that.

"Do you know what happened to her after she disappeared?"

"No." Again, that definite sound.

And then, after a long pause and a sip from an almost-empty bone china cup, Fräulein Vaclavik continued.

"I know that she had many friends in the Muggle ... in a different world."

"Pardon?"

"Excuse me?"

"That word you used ... Muggle. What does it mean?"

"Oh." Fräulein Vaclavik seemed embarrassed. "It's a word for ... it means ... a kind of lifestyle, I suppose one might call it."

"Ah." Figures, Vic thought.

"Since I was working as a governess in England at the time, I can only relate second-hand information," Fräulein Vaclavik continued. "To tell you the truth, I do not usually do so, but if you take it for what it is, then I hope there will be no harm in it."

"We'll take it with a grain of salt."

"Good." She set down the cup before she went on. "I heard that she was at a function with her friends. Sixty-three years ago to this day, actually. Walpurgis Night, the night the witches are abroad. She went out with a friend and was never seen again. Except by the porter downstairs, who allegedly saw them come back in the early hours of the morning. Purportedly in a hurry. They left some time later with a small suitcase and a Silver ... bicycle."

"They came _back_?" Vic gasped.

"Yes, they did. If the porter was to be believed, and I should think that he was."

Vic's hand felt for Thea's, which Fräulein Vaclavik acknowledged by looking out the window.

"I'm sorry I can't tell you more. I don't know where she went, nor who the friend was."

"Oh, we know a bit about her," Thea offered. "I don't know if it helps, but ..." She broke off and looked at Vic.

Vic acknowledged the pass with a nod and a smile. Thea's love of taking centre stage, whether literally or figuratively, had always been a source of conflict between them. One of the many, in fact, that had led to their big fight of three months ago, the one that had ended with Vic storming out of the house with a suitcase. There was no denying that a quick tongue had its merits in certain situations, but it definitely put Vic at a disadvantage in conversation. She'd raised the point a thousand times, and a thousand times, Thea had promised to do better. Might she be learning indeed?

"... She was probably English," Vic continued. "And perhaps Jewish. A friend of Wilhelmina's, whom we met earlier today, referred to her as the _kvidditch girl_."

"Kvidditch girl?" Fräulein Vaclavik repeated. "Kvidditch girl..." She got up and went to a bookcase. "I don't know much about that sort of thing, but ..." She opened a glass door and pulled out a large, leather-bound book, which she deposited on her desk.

"There weren't that many women in it back then," she muttered as she ran a finger along the pages. "Did this friend say what she looked like?"

"Short hair," Vic said, though that probably didn't help much. "Tall, perhaps a bit masculine. And purportedly ... erm ... sharp facial features. And her name was ..."

Fräulein Vaclavik turned another page, and then she nodded.

"Rolanda Hooch," she said as she closed the book and returned it to its shelf.

"Yes, that was it," said Thea, surprised.

"Wait here, please. I will call the family for whom I worked back then."

As the door fell shut behind her, Vic and Thea looked at each other. What the hell had that been? A book that listed all ... what? English Jewish lesbians?

Vic noticed that she still had her hand in Thea's. She also noticed that it felt a lot less wrong than she'd have thought only twelve hours ago. Small surprise, really. She'd missed Thea's touch, her humour, even and perhaps especially her super-size ego, during the time she'd stubbornly camped out at her mother's, and when they'd made up two weeks ago, in the small, stuffy dressing room of some Midwestern concert hall, Vic had thought she'd never again want to be without it.

Until that message.

Perhaps Thea _had_ really believed that their relationship had been history. Surely she wouldn't have done it otherwise?

Still, did she have to act so quickly?

And couldn't she have told her right away?

Vic had barely begun to think about the matter. She hadn't really got any further than when they'd discussed the hypothetical case years ago, and Vic had flat out refused even to consider any arrangement like that. But perhaps one could get used to a few things. Perhaps, but only perhaps, the idea wasn't as outlandish as she'd once found it.

Not that she'd disclose such musings at this point. Vic wasn't one to voice half-finished thoughts. Yet she did lean forward, just a bit, just so that Thea picked up the movement and brought her face closer to Vic's.

The clearing of a throat made them pull apart.

It had come from the corridor. Vic and Thea took the message with a smile. Their hostess appeared in the doorway after exactly the time it took two people in compromising positions to sit up straight again and put their hair and garments in order.

The old lady had a small mocha pot in her hand.

"My former employer's son remembers the lady. Both ladies, actually. He hasn't had spoken to either of them in several years, but he will get in touch with his wife. She works for the government and may find out the address."

Fräulein Vaclavik refilled their cups and sat down in her armchair. There was an awkward pause. It wasn't as if Vic didn't have a thousand questions burning inside her, but she wasn't sure if it was appropriate to ask them.

If Thea had any such qualms, she obviously had better coping strategies.

"And you?" she asked after she'd thanked their hostess for the refill. "What became of you?"

"Me?" Surprised, perhaps reluctant. "Oh, I managed."

Thea shook her head and leaned forward. "Don't you think your story counts for more than that?"

Fräulein Vaclavik forced a smile. "I'd love to, child. But it really doesn't. I left the Institute soon after Wilhelmina, out of my own volition. I had found work as a governess in England through an acquaintance, and when their children were grown, I returned to this country and moved into this flat. Wilhelmina was long gone; I didn't even know that she had lived here. I have spent the rest of my life coaching children -- astronomy, arith—metics, the occasional piano lesson --, and I will continue to do so until they carry me out of this place, feet first."

She took the empty cups and placed them back on the tray.

"And that is my story."

Thea gaped. Vic knew the currency in which her lover thought. Blockbuster operas had been written on far less than that. Yet before Thea could apply herself to extracting more information, a rattling noise in the adjacent room put an end to their interview.

"Excuse me," Fräulein Vaclavik said as she got up. "This will be the message from Mr. Marchbanks."

A few moments later, she returned with a small brass tube, much like the ones they'd seen in the porter's lodge. Perhaps the English contact had faxed a message to the porter, and he'd sent it up through the pneumatic tube? Fräulein Vaclavik brushed what looked like a little soot off it and took out a piece of paper, which she handed to Vic.

The message was short.

 _Ottery St Catchpole, Cornwall. Stoatshead Hill, ask for Llangollen Cottage._

Vic wasn't one to cry easily. She could sit through operas and usually kept a dry eye even long after Thea had turned up the faucets. She hadn't bawled during the shouting matches in January. And she hadn't even had to wipe away a tear when the text message arrived that morning at the baggage claim.

But right now, she was grateful that Thea always carried tissues.

And when they'd bid goodbye to Fräulein Vaclavik and made their way down the stairs again, Thea got out the mobile phone to call the President of Lufthansa.

Or that was what it sounded like.

***

 **Stoatshead Hill, 1 May 1999, 2:00 p.m.**

Rolanda hadn't brought flowers.

Wilhelmina had never been one for that kind of things. Sentimentality is no reason to take a life, she'd always said, even if it’s that of a plant. Potted plants, yes, something sensible such as marigold or arnica, or kitchen herbs for the cooking sprees she'd indulged in more and more often the older she got. But never flowers that someone had cut, condemned to a slow death to give short-lived pleasure, or worse, pay tribute to one who couldn't even appreciate them anymore.

Like Wilhelmina.

It had been two weeks now, since the disease had claimed her for good. Since the shortness of breath and the pain and insomnia had ended as abruptly as the laughs and the jokes and the joint sunrise-watching in the garden. Rare as the latter had become of late.

You'll be free to sleep through soon, Wilhelmina had said sometime in early April, as Rolanda sat up by her bed once more, a Muggle oxygen mask in her hand and a tear barely held back in her eye.

What had Wilhelmina known.

"Good boy," Rolanda said as she tied Conan to the wrought-iron fence of the Stoatshead Hill Cemetery and opened the rusty gate. She closed the gate softly behind herself and slowly set out to walk down the brownish-grey gravel path, like every day, twenty steps ahead and then left.

Halfway down the lane, she stopped.

Two people stood in front of the grave, heads bowed. One of them just brushed the other's hand off her arm, gently, like someone who knew she'd be understood.

Angelina and Katie, it shot through her head, before she reminded herself that it couldn't be. Angelina had finally married one of the Weasley boys, and Katie now lived somewhere in Scandinavia if she wasn't mistaken. And these two were clearly older. No, this wasn't anybody she knew.

Quite obviously, the women weren't from here. This was a village, after all. A tall, athletic blonde and a generously-curved black woman would not have escaped Rolanda's notice.

Magic or Muggle was difficult to tell. That orange thing the one woman was wearing could easily be a witch's robe, but the jeans and shirt of the other were unequivocally Muggle. Though that didn't say much these days. Rolanda squinted, blessing the perfect vision that still hadn't begun to fade even in her ninth decade. Yes, the shoes were Muggle, too. Muggle brands. Some sparkly athletic shoe of the kind she'd never had much use for, and those practical hiking sandals she'd seen in a catalogue not long ago.

"Hello," she said.

And gave a start.

A Plank chin. The woman who looked up sported a prime specimen of a Plank chin. And blond hair and big feet and a woman by her side who definitely wasn't her cousin. If it weren't damn near impossible, she'd say that it was Wilhelmina's twin sister twice removed.

Morgana's beaver. Had the dyke grandniece-or-whatever come to look for the disappeared spinster aunt at last?

Of all the bloody times in the world.

Chance had a strange sense of humour.

Stranger still, Rolanda didn't seem to be the only one of them who had a moment of recognition.

"Ms. Hooch?" the blonde asked, tentatively.

"The very," Rolanda said, making no effort to hide her surprise. "Rolanda Hooch. I'll be pleased to meet you." She extended her hand.

"Sorry," the woman muttered. "Victoria Plank from Seattle. This is my friend ... partner, Thea Jones."

"Erm ... shalom," the orange-clad one said.

Who'd have guessed, Rolanda thought. "Likewise," she said, hoping that it was an adequate reply.

"We tried to call you, but we couldn't find ..."

"No," Rolanda said. "I'm not ... easily findable."

She found herself strangely at a loss of words. It wasn't as if she hadn't played out the scene several times in her head over the past six decades. What to say if someone from Wilhelmina's estranged family were to turn up at last? Would she feel satisfaction, that someone had come round at last? Relief, because there were holes that even the best friend in the world couldn't fill? Or would the anger outweigh it all, the anger she'd felt every time she'd looked at Wilhelmina, wondering from where that woman had been able to draw all the love and the forgiveness, the acceptance and serenity that nobody had ever instilled in her?

Yet then she saw this woman's eyes, that faint, hardly discernible puppy frown that Rolanda had learned to detect decades ago, when she'd discovered that even the rock of a woman that was Wilhelmina had her vulnerabilities, and made a decision.

"Come and see me when you're ready here. Up Stoatshead Hill, last cottage on the left. You can't miss it."

The women nodded, and Rolanda turned around to make her way back down the gravel path. She untied Conan from the rusty fence, tickled his chin for having been a good boy, and began her slow walk home up the hill.

Telling those Muggles the whole truth was out of the question; the Statutes of Secrecy were quite clear on that. Revelations of the magical world were only allowed to spouses and relatives up to the second degree.

Irony, again. By the looks of it, this grandniece or whatever was more akin to Wilhelmina than any direct-line relative she'd ever had. More akin, in any case, than the parents who'd written off their daughter after finding her wanting and proceeded to make themselves a replacement baby, or the brother who'd never wondered why his oh-so-dead sister didn't have a grave.

This one here had come, however the hell she'd got here. She deserved to know. And, more importantly, Wilhelmina deserved it. She'd never been forthcoming with personal information except to a select few. And with Weston being dead and Rolanda and Wilhelmina's other friends not exactly young any more (and quite without descendants themselves), who would remain to remember her?

She'd tell. As much as she could, as true as she could.

Besides, what was the full truth anyway? Did it matter that the institution she'd been shipped off to at eleven wasn't a madhouse? Did concealing the fact that Wilhelmina could produce a prime rhino erection yet never passed her Apparition test take anything away from the truth that she'd been a blessing to all those who had known her -- if they would have her?

"Finished, Conan?" she asked the dachshund as she opened the gate to the front garden of Llangollen Cottage.

She had work to do. Not that there was much magical stuff lying around the house; Wilhelmina had never quite taken to astronomy or ancient runes, and Rolanda's magical gadgets all fit into a broom shed. But the wireless and the phoenix quill should go, and a few photos, too. A glamour over the unicorn horns and some of the book titles would be a good idea as well.

And then she'd de-thatch the meadow and devise a story.

She had finished everything except a Conan-sized patch dead in the middle of the garden, when she heard heavy breaths drawing closer from the Stoatshead Hill Road. Yes, It was a steep walk for those who weren't used to it or had no support means. It had been a reason to choose this address.

Rolanda circled the cottage and wiped her hands on the jeans she'd put on.

"Come around," she said. "I'm in the garden."

She led them to the newly-paved terrace and bade them sit on the sturdy wooden chairs they'd commissioned from Olivia Ollivander last summer. Back then she'd frowned at the fancy, rainbow-striped upholstery, wondering if it had been wise to leave the choice of the fabric up to the young witch, but it somehow seemed to have a calming effect on those two Muggles. They looked almost amused as they sat down.

"Coffee?" Rolanda asked, and, when the two women nodded, looked at the grandniece: "Don't tell me you prefer instant, with half a cup of milk and three spoons of sugar?"

"No." There was a small smile. "As black as you have it. Bit of sugar perhaps."

"Good," Rolanda grumbled. "Thanks for adding that last bit. I might have doubted the relation otherwise." And went inside to make coffee and leave her visitors to let the surroundings sink in.

When she came back, the grandniece and her lover had visibly settled down. They were speaking in low voices, and Conan had curled up -- you bet -- by the blonde's feet. Rolanda set the tray on the table, distributed the cups, and sat down with them.

She decided to hold off on the speaking. Both her visitors looked like they could take silence for what it was -- not something that had to be killed at all costs, but something that could, sometimes, build a better bridge than friendly chatter and meaningless cordialities if the right words hadn't come yet. Rolanda had had to learn that herself; naturally it had been Wilhelmina who'd taught her. And if she wasn't completely pants at reading people, the sparkly-shod beauty had taken a lesson or two from her girlfriend as well.

"I didn't know she was married," the blonde began after a while.

Rolanda nodded. The double name on the headstone. The first half of the double name on the headstone next to it. "Long story."

She left it at that, for a long story it was. And perhaps not the one with which to begin this tale.

"It probably sounds stupid," the woman resumed, and Rolanda shook her head, "... but I had so many questions, Ms. Hooch, and now I don't know where to begin."

"Then begin by calling me Rolanda." She set down her cup. "Victoria," she added.

"Vic. Victoria is for Thea when she's angry."

"I see I have to doubt the relation after all," Rolanda said drily. "Rare were the occasions when Wilhelmina answered to anything short of the full four syllables."

Conan had rolled onto his back, and Vic absent-mindedly tickled his light brown tummy.

"Why don't you tell me what you know, and we take it from there?" Rolanda asked. It seemed like a good plan. She'd have to make a few things up, but she wanted to keep them as close to the facts as possible. And they had better tally with what these girls already knew.

So Vic began to speak. Of a photo in the entrance hall of a hotel, of a Plank chin that allowed no mistake. Of Gisela Kroll, heavens, how could she have forgotten that brazen thigh that kept wiggling its way where it had no place even in jitterbugging. Of the Fräulein, poor, lonely Fräulein Vatsername, who probably forever cursed and blessed the day she'd met Wilhelmina. And of a cryptic, implausible police record.

That last bit made Rolanda smile. Not so implausible where she was concerned. No police officer, Nazi or not, could very well have put down the full, embarrassing truth.

Rolanda fished the small pipe out of her pocket and filled it patiently as she waited for the question that would be next.

"Rolanda? What really happened that night? How did you get out?"

Rolanda cleared her throat. Now she'd see if she could do better than the policeman in the plausibility department.

"More luck than brains, as your aunt would have said."

She took a deep drag from the pipe before she continued. "May I see that letter? Yes, six-thirty five. They got that about right."

A few m-hms followed, and more pipe smoke rose as she read on. Then there was a laugh.

"Protect us against immoral nightly nearings, my word. I'd say, they _were_ the immoral nightly nearing. Beat up a gay man, brutally, that's what they did. His lover had run off like a shot rabbit, but there was your aunt. Charged at them full speed; I followed. We managed to bring our point across to the two Nazis, but we hadn't counted on the police patrol. And that's how we ended up in that prison cell."

Rolanda blew a cloud of smoke into the air. So far, so actually quite true.

"We had no idea what they were going to do with us. We'd humiliated the men quite badly, I suppose, and on top of that there was a problem because I didn't have a ... valid visa. Long story short, we had reason to want to get out of there. So in the morning, when a warden came to bring us breakfast, we went for him. I suppose us being both the athletic type helped, and in addition we had a few tricks up our sleeves. Of course, it could have gone deadly wrong, but somehow ... as strange as that sounds ... not fifteen minutes later a blond police officer with the sweetest chin on earth -- mind you, that was before you were born -- walked out of an interrogation room and unlocked the handcuffs of a girl in a dirty, black-and-white shirt."

Rolanda leaned back, blessing the pipe for the serene looks it imparted. Cock-and-rhino-bull, she thought. But definitely better than: 'I slept off my three glasses of beer and Disapparated us into the public loo on Nollendorfplatz. By the way, does that still exist?'

Vic and Thea sat there, half-frowning, half-gaping. Did they buy it? She wasn't sure if she'd have the heart to Obliviate them and start over until she got the story just right.

"Amazing," Thea said at last. "I'd never have thought this possible in real life."

"Different times," Rolanda ventured. "And a different world. Wilhelmina told everyone who asked that she had orders from above, and that was that."

"Amazing," Thea repeated.

Vic looked the more sceptical one of the two. She took out a pack of cigarettes, opened it, then suddenly paused and shoved it back into her pocket without having taken one.

"I suppose that would explain why she had to flee ..."

"Precisely," Rolanda confirmed. "Given that she couldn't just go undercover in the country; what with her Mugg-- her job at the zoo and her friends who'd get unpleasant questions. So we fled. To England. On that silver bicycle. Again, more luck than brains, but I suppose everyone who got out can say that of themselves. And when it occurred to us that she couldn't really stay here without a permit, we married her off to my coach. Owed me a favour anyway."

"A favour?"

"I was engaged to his Polish flame. The fire didn't last until the wedding date, so I got off with my bachelorhood intact, but Weston Grubbly was never a man who thought strictly in terms of tit for tat. And, arranged or not, I daresay theirs wasn't one of the worst marriages ever concluded."

Indeed it hadn't been. While they'd never really lived together, over the years the Grubbly-Planks had grown into a match that sought its equal. They'd been rocks in the surf for each other, quiet company, fun company, and a legendary pair of spectators at all Cannons' and Harpies' matches. How exactly they'd defined the boundary between friendship and love, and whether they'd felt a need to define it at all, Rolanda had never known. And as far as she was concerned, it didn't matter.

She hid a smile at the puzzled looks in Vic's and Thea's faces.

"I see you have a question?"

"Well," Vic began, "it's just ..."

"Yes?"

"I thought ... we thought _you_ had been lovers."

"We were," Rolanda said. "At various points in our lives."

Thea smiled. "Gisela Kroll called you Wilhelmina's kvidditch girl. She'd picked up that word from you."

"Did she now?" Rolanda raised an eyebrow. "I really should have been more careful with the drinks that night."

They sat like that for a while. Rolanda went in to fetch gillywater (having judged it Muggle-compatible) and a few early strawberries from the greenhouse that Pomona had built for them.

"Do you think she was happy?" Vic asked when Rolanda had returned.

Rolanda moved that question around in her head for a while. "Yes," she said in the end. "Yes, she was a happy woman."

And that was a fact.

"She had friendship," Rolanda continued. "She had love, more kinds than most people are fortunate enough ever to experience. And she had this. Her house, her animals. There were always ups and downs, and heavy downs they were, but she'd managed to make for herself what she'd always wanted. A place for all of her."

Rolanda leaned back and looked at the sun that had begun to set over Stoatshead Hill. Her pipe had long cooled down. She'd smoked more of it than she'd wanted to. With a few brisk knocks, she emptied its ashes into the ashtray and slid the pipe back into the pocket of her vest. A light wind had come up.

"Come in," she said as she saw the light down on Vic's forearm rise. "It's getting cold, and you'll want to see the house."

She pushed herself up from the armchair and guided them into the cottage. There was no use in telling them that they'd rebuilt it only a year ago; it would have taken too many explanations, and anyway the cottage looked almost exactly like its predecessor. Except perhaps the scorch marks in the hallway, left there to bear witness but currently hidden behind small tapestries to spare the unsuspecting visitor and save the hostess a few difficult questions.

The sitting room was their first stop, with its mix-and-match furniture, its books, and a Quaffle signed by Gwendolyn Morgan next to the grandmother clock on the mantelpiece. "Form of rugby," she said when they looked puzzled. Next was the kitchen, with its array of herbs on the windowsill, and Wilhelmina's arsenal of woks and pans, knives and ladles, and Conan's empty food bowl on the terracotta-tiled floor that Rolanda considered her best do-it-yourself job ever. And the stable, she couldn't very well leave out the stable with a visitor like Vic. "Palomino," she said, and upon a questioning look: "Rare line."

It had grown dark when they came back into the sitting room. "May I treat you to a taste of her favourite whisky?" Rolanda asked as she lit a few lamps on the side table and in the corners.

Vic had readied herself to speak. It had looked like a yes, but as Thea thanked Rolanda politely and said that she begged them to go ahead without her, she obviously reconsidered.

"Thank you. But I think I'll show some solidarity with Thea," she said, and added after a pause: "Better get used to it."

There was a look between them that Rolanda couldn't quite pinpoint.

"She's ... we're expecting a baby."

One could almost have thought that that information was total news to the mother-to-be. How else to explain the hand that darted to her mouth and the tears that welled up in her eyes, and one of the deepest embraces and longest kisses that this sofa had borne in its eleven-month existence?

"Congratulations," Rolanda said when they'd remembered her presence and pulled apart at last. And, to Vic, "Well done."

Vic gave a faint smile. "I'll pass on the compliment to the friend who helped out."

"Well." Rolanda got up from the chequered armchair. "More's the reason for a toast. Allow the old sportswoman to concoct something non-alcoholic for us. Sweet or sour?"

***

"It's getting late," Vic said as she looked at the grandmother clock. Which was not true. It had just begun to get early again.

"You two can have one of the upstairs rooms," Rolanda offered.

"No, thanks." Vic looked at Thea, who indicated that she didn't mind either way. "We have a room in the village. And I think we can use the walk."

"Very well," Rolanda said. "Let me fetch you a lamp."

When she came back, she had an old-fashioned red lantern in one hand, and something else in the other. She'd spotted it in Wilhelmina's drawer, and she'd remembered the first time she'd seen it, standing half-dressed in front of Wilhelmina's cracked mirror. Vic might not have a use for it soon. But it would make a hell of a good Halloween accessory.

"Here," she said and handed them the lamp and Wilhelmina's brown, slender cigarette holder.

"There, there," she said as she found herself, once more, with an armful of Plank, running her hand over short, blond hair and patting a sensibly-shirted back.

She bade Vic and Thea goodbye with kisses on the forehead and stood by the gate, looking down Stoatshead Hill Road long after they had disappeared.

***

 **Somewhere Above the Atlantic, 7 May 1999, 3:12 p.m. Local Time**

"Well, fuck me with a fried sausage!"

Vic's hand landed hard on the space bar, yanking the laptop out of its battery-saving slumber.

"Pardon?" Thea lifted an earphone and tore her eyes from some film about a cellist and her sister.

Vic had spent the last two hours alternately typing and deleting single sentences, staring at a blank, white screen, and letting the computer drift back into standby mode. Everything she'd tried, every beginning she'd typed and every thought she'd put down just led to more questions that wanted to be researched. What would have been the consequences if Wilhelmina and Rolanda hadn't escaped? What had happened to other women in the same situation? Was anything known of the fates of the women who had crossed Wilhelmina's path at one point or other? They were strict at the Lesbian History Project; they liked their articles well-founded and their footnotes copious, and she didn't want to let them down.

With a hint of frustration because, hell, she wanted to write _now_ , Vic had decided to postpone the opus magnum until she had access to the Internet, a phone, and her various libraries of choice again.

And then this one question had popped up in her mind.

It was a joke, really.

But it wouldn't go away.

And it was the one question that didn't require a library. Except perhaps the medical one, section _Delusions_.

"What if they really _were_ witches?"

"I'm sorry, honey?"

"Isn't it strange how we kept hearing the word _witch_ that week? Witch Night. Witch parties. And did you see that English magazine on Miss Vaclavik's desk, the one with the stern-looking woman in green with the intellodyke specs on the cover? _Witch Weekly_. I know it's probably a code word for lesbian, but just suppose for a second that it weren't?"

Thea had removed her earphones and placed them in her lap.

"Are we talking lesbian fairy tales now?"

"Why not?" Vic shrugged. "Might open up completely new audiences."

"Well, it _would_ certainly explain how they got out of that prison unscathed," Thea said with a raised eyebrow.

"The Institute would be a boarding school for little witches, disguised as a madhouse to keep the uninitiated away."

"And kvidditch?"

"Form of rugby."

A thin spray of coke appeared on the postcard-sized screen of Thea's personal entertainment system. "Don't say it. Played with ..."

"...Broomsticks." They finished the sentence simultaneously, with a snort that won them a scorching look from a no-longer-dozing fellow passenger.

"And two women of alternative lifestyles ..."

"... Muggles ..." Thea interjected as she tackled the small screen with a towelette.

"... Set out on a quest to find her and discover a few things about each other ... and themselves ... in the process," Vic finished.

"I love you," Thea whispered when their neighbour had left for the loo in not-quite-silent protest. Among the noise of the turbines and the rattle of the drinks cart pushing past them, Vic didn't catch all of what Thea said after that, but she was sure that she'd heard the word _snitch_ somewhere in there.

And as Thea put her earphones back on, a hand on Vic's leg, Vic cranked the laptop back up and began typing.

She wrote:

> _The woman yawned as she opened the back door of her cottage and stuck her nose out into the crisp, cold morning. Squinting at the horizon, she saw with satisfaction that a thin, peach-coloured lining had begun to creep up above the fields behind Ottery St. Catchpole. Timid rays of whitish light ..._

  


***Fin***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you for sticking around until the very end! It means a lot to me. Now if you still feel like it, here's a bit of extra information.
> 
> Number one, I owe a great debt of gratitude to scholars such as Heike Schader and Ilse Kokula as well as the Schwules Museum Berlin, without whose publications I probably wouldn't know the first thing about lesbian life in early 20th century Germany.
> 
> The magazine that the woman in the pachyderm section liked to read on Fridays really existed and was called Die Freundin. It was one of several weekly or bi-weekly publications for the woman-loving woman that appeared from the mid-twenties until March 1933, when all publications and meeting places for "homosexuals and transvestites" were banned. The issue with the naked woman in the grove on the cover is from 1926. Just so you know.
> 
> Claire, the boyish cabaret singer who refused to even hang straight, is Claire Waldoff, whom you saw in the icon to the first part. With a voice like a cheesegrater and a wicked sense of humour, she was the star of Berlin's cabarets in the 1920s and quite possibly the outest lesbian in the country. Rumours of an affair with a certain blond angel also featured in Ulla Amtmann's gallery are unconfirmed but persistent. When the war broke out, Claire Waldoff withdrew to a small place in Bavaria, together with her partner of 40 years, Olga "Olly" von Roeder, where she lived until 1957. Her recordings still sell.
> 
> Lotte the walk-on was named after Lotte Hahm (see icon), who ran various clubs, associations, and venues for women and "transvestites" (meaning cross-dressing women like Lotte herself) between 1926 and 1933. In 1933, she was arrested after her then-girlfriend's father had reported her for corruption of minors. In 1935, she was transferred to Moringen concentration camp. Details as well as the actual charges are unknown because the camp records are lost, but we do know that she was released eventually and even organised meetings and parties for lesbian women again before the war broke out in 1939. Little is known of her activities after the war, but she is reported to have run a women's club after 1945.
> 
> I would tell you after what or whom I've modelled Bertha BQC Berlin, but the pain is still too fresh.


End file.
